


Cold Sun

by leaveyoursensibilitiesatthedoor



Series: Witch Verse [3]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band), Ghost (Swedish Band), The VVitch, The Witch (2016)
Genre: Blasphemy, Blow Jobs, Blow Jobs in a Car, Character Study, Cock Worship, Crossover Pairings, Daddy Issues, Emotions, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Introspection, Master/Pet, Older Man/Younger Woman, Porn With Plot, Reflection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-02-18 01:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveyoursensibilitiesatthedoor/pseuds/leaveyoursensibilitiesatthedoor
Summary: [Papa Emeritus II x Thomasin: the trequel.] High jinks in a speeding vehicle, and taking your final vows as a bride of Satan, are fun.
Relationships: Papa Emeritus II/Thomasin, Papa Emeritus II/Thomasin (The Witch)
Series: Witch Verse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1341490
Comments: 30
Kudos: 28





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~ This is the third in a series with the crossover pairing of Thomasin from 'The Witch', and Papa Emeritus II of the band Ghost. If you haven't read the first two stories, it's advisable that you do before reading this, lest confusion abound. 
> 
> ~ The title of this story comes from the track of the same name by CHVRN.
> 
> ~ Please suspend your disbelief and forgive the use of modern day vernacular in place of its 17th century counterpart. I'm not learned enough in the latter to use it with any confidence. 
> 
> ~ I'm well aware that in the movie the young witch's (who seduces Caleb) youthful appearance is purely a glamour. That gnarled old hand was visible a mile off—I have simply chosen to disregard it in my story, and have the old hag witch and young witch be two separate people, to fit in with the plot (that's what fanfiction is for, after all). 
> 
> ~ Papa Emeritus II, Thomasin, and all characters in their respective universes, are property of Tobias Forge, Martin Persner, Peter Hällje, Robert Eggers, and Anya Taylor-Joy (who made the character her own). This is a work of fan fiction from which I make no profit. (Copyright Disclaimer: Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for "fair use" for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing. Non-profit, educational or personal use tips the balance in favour of fair use.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2020/7/26 EDIT:  
> I've changed the official novitiate period from 1 year to 2, and Thomasin's fast tracking of it from 6 months to 18 months. In retrospect, I feel a year was far too short an estimation anyway, and having Thomasin complete her training doubly fast was just a tad too Mary-Sue-ish, irrespective of how much effort she put in. It was never my intention to make her a perfect character--more a workaholic with an ambitious streak and a driving desire to impress her Papa. As per 'Blue Skyed Eternity', I had to grant her *some* natural magical abilities, *some* raw talent, to fit in with the idea that Papa, and Satan, chose her for a reason (beyond the fact that she's attractive and youthful). They immediately recognized her potential, but that is not to say she's a genius whose accomplishments come easily.
> 
> 2020/8/1 EDIT:   
> I've changed the part of 'Blue Skyed Eternity' where Thomasin has a "vision" to something that's no longer a "vision". To be honest, I never liked that part to begin with--"vision" is way too cliche, Magical Girl MarySue-ish--but I called it that because for the life of me I couldn't recall the term I actually intended. I've since remembered that term, and altered the section in question.

A cold sun casts its chilly rays upon the night-veiled world. Of course, it's not the sun, but their name for the first full moon in January. Other names include wolf moon, ice moon, snow moon, old moon, and moon after Yule, but here they call it cold sun. She finds that name particularly appealing, feeling somehow more right. It's almost as bright as the sun, too, that same preternatural luminosity she had first experienced in her sixteenth year the night he had come to her. That event will stay with her forever.

Standing on the shore of the huge lake, she watches facets of light glittering, and the skittering back and forth of the bioluminescent insects that exist nowhere else but here. Cold lights, the insects are called, because they emerge only during the winter, the January sun their solstice.

She's done this many times before, entranced as she is by the hours of darkness, but at this moment everything she beholds seems even more resplendent. Tonight is her initiation, and it feels as if everything, animate and inanimate, knows.

“Thomasin.”

For a split second she thinks the voice is Caleb's, but realises it can't be. It's Berenice, the lethally beautiful sister witch with the timbre of voice so freakishly similar to Thomasin's deceased brother, if you disregarded the accent. If Caleb had mastered a southern English accent, that would have been his voice. It always struck Thomasin as out of place on a woman of such bountiful curves and glorious sensuality.

The brunette is standing several feet behind, shivering a little in the frigid temperatures. Thomasin feels the bite, too, but is strangely unperturbed by it—two years of a homestead with poorer insulation than even her plantation home have inured her to the discomfort of harsh winters.

“It's time,” Berenice says with a faint smile, as the novitiate turns to her.

The serene calm of the cold sun gives way to a flutter of nerves in Thomasin's chest, a slightly queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach; but they are good nerves, nerves bound to the excitement and anticipation of what tonight will bring. After eighteen months of diligent study—fast tracked, because it usually takes two years—she is finally ready to become an official member of the Church. She has worked harder mentally and psychologically than ever, and soon, so soon, this and everything from her life before, will be worth it.

It has been a whole month since his last touch, as is customary prior to initiation, and she is being eaten up with need. He has helped tutor her from the time she arrived here, despite his other duties and responsibilities being plentiful, more so for the two years he has spent away, in goat form, watching and guarding her. He has made time for her education, and for passionate extra-curricular romps, at the expense of his other women, who to their immense credit have waited patiently for him. Puritans rejected all but strictly monogamous sexual relationships within the confines of marriage. Satan's own, however, went about things very differently, all Papas ostensibly having a sexual duty to each and every one of his female flock; ostensibly, because dear old Papa I, her Papa's elder brother, hasn't used his manhood for those duties in a long time, his flock either equally as disinterested in carnality, or availing themselves to the services of the highly virile male and female ghouls.

Thomasin is far from her Papa's sole lover, and she understands and accepts this, although the honeymoon period of her arrival and acclimatization has spoiled her with an excess of his affections. It's the same for every novitiate, to sweeten the deal; she knows that in two days, after the celebrations are over and he's properly welcomed her into the fold, she is going to have to accustom herself to waiting for him again, whilst her sisters have their long-awaited turn. This she accepts, not only because she knows he cherishes each of them equally, but because the torturous wait makes her appreciate him all the more. Not forgetting, of course, how it reminds her of those two achingly long years between their first encounter, and the consummation of their bond. She has shed her old life in its entirety for him, for his Master, and every time he so much as looks at her she is reminded how necessary a price it was, because this—this place, these feelings, this life—is where she wants to be, where she belongs. Here is home.

She walks towards Berenice, her assigned mother hen. Under Satan's orders, and their Papa's instruction, Berenice has killed people. Children. Babies.

Berenice witched Caleb.

“How are you not freezing your tits off out here?” the buxom 25-year-old exclaims, inciting a laugh from her underling. For all her beauty and poise, she has one of the pottiest mouths in existence.

“I don't _have_ any tits to freeze off,” Thomasin quips back.

The brunette smiles, slender hands slipping beneath the cloak to settle on the blonde's modest, dress-covered bust. “Nothing wrong with that,” she murmurs, eyes dark with deadly mischief.

Some people found the unbridled sexuality of the woman a little overwhelming; Thomasin had, too, initially, less because of any specific aversion on account of her Puritan upbringing, than her own desires simply revolving around Papa. The female gender had never tempted her, because he was all she wanted. That was, until he introduced her to the concept of a threesome, Berenice teaching her the pleasures a woman's touch could also bring. Berenice had opened the girl's legs, and equally her eyes. What began as simple curiosity and the desire to please her mentor, became a part of her. What originally felt close to incestuous, knowing how the woman had deflowered Caleb, turned into something thrilling. In a way, perhaps it was what she needed, the final piece of the puzzle to fully make peace with Caleb's demise—an atonement of sorts. Although she has never outright questioned Papa or Berenice over it, she wonders if that isn't the case for them, too.

The woman's hands do not linger there, much to the relief of the younger, who is tormented enough for her enforced, month long abstinence from anyone else. Dark hours here are a buffet of carnality, and suddenly having to forego what she has become blissfully accustomed to is sheer agony. Although servicing herself is allowed, it's not a patch on what Papa does to her. She needs to save every iota of roiling need for him, give him her all tonight, as she did when she first gave herself to him, and Berenice knows this well. Thomasin places her hand in her sister's, and together they walk back to the cathedral, the cold sun and its cold light creatures bidding them farewell for the time being.

Reconciling her new kin, with their smiles and their love and their welcoming arms, with the amorphous predators who had so cruelly murdered her siblings, was something the she of her old life could never have done. Indeed, it had been a point of contention within herself for a short while; as she had risen into the sky, she had laughed almost deliriously at the utter absurdity, the stark irony of becoming one with them. And she had laughed, too, because as ludicrous and heinous as the whole thing was, she knew and understood and accepted why. It all felt like a contradiction, yet one that made the most ludicrous, perfect sense. Here she was _despite_ everything, _because_ of everything, and it surprised her that she did not feel aghast by it.

Somehow, she knew Berenice the moment she set eyes on her, knew with absolute conviction who and what she was. The ancient hag, Susanna, too. They embraced her, caressed her, and she reciprocated not with the abject disgust and hatred her Puritan self would have done, but with the very love and warmth they extended to her. She should despise every single one of them, their Papa and his Master above all, but she didn't. This was meant to be, and however wrong that was, it was right.

Caleb's killer holds the trap door open for Caleb's sister. Gathering her long garments in one hand, the latter steps out of the night and into the candle-lit stairwell, ready to descend into the bowels of the earth, where everyone awaits her.

\- - - - - - - -

Eighteen months previously:

“So... where are they taking us?” she asks, after hearing the coachmen depart.

“Somewhere far from here,” he replies softly, with that weapon of a smile, fire light painting ever-shifting pictures on his skull-inked skin.

All it takes is a gleam in those jarringly mismatched eyes, a slight curve of those painted lips, and she is unravelling, unable to think or feel anything else except yearning to explore him with the parts of her that haven't yet; that he claimed her virginity a mere few hours ago seems insignificant. It's completely unfair.

God damn him. God damn her, too.

Hah.

“But first,” he continues, “you must be hungry. You haven't eaten in nearly two days.”

Two days, she wonders? Has it really been that long? Food has been scarce for so many weeks now, days tending to blur into one another, and appetites shrinking to the extent that boiled water would fill them up. Now that he mentions it, though, she realises that yes, she is hungry—famished, in fact. It is then that she notices the bench behind him, empty when she had retreated into sleep upon it earlier that day, is laden with... food. And she can smell it, too. She blinks several times, wondering if it's all a mirage, but the scene, replete with its tempting smells, remains. For a moment all carnal thoughts vanish as she stares, flabbergasted, at the bench. From the distance of the bed, she can decipher a loaf of bread, a huge slab of butter, and a pot that smells like meat and squash stew, drifting tendrils of mouth-watering scent.

His delicious, wry chuckle brings her gaze back to his.

“All this...” she begins, scrambling to find the words for dumbfoundedness, “how did you-? Where did all this come from? Because there's nothing-”

That intoxicating smile again, although currently her stomach is speaking louder than her libido, and now she is blessedly near immune.

“Satan provides. Give yourself to him, and he will give to you. He's a very fair master.”

Unlike her hitherto ruler, who demanded sacrifice and penance in return for little or nothing, except a promise that reward would be in Heaven if you were pure enough to get in. The Puritan rationale was that the mortal coil comprised a mere 100 years at most, a blink of an eye in comparison with eternity. She wonders what Satan's eternity will be like, whether it's the fire and brimstone, the screeching, pitchfork-wielding demon slave-masters her previous holy book warned of for those who chose the wrong path. Does eternal damnation with its infinite agonies await her, or, as it occurs to her for the first time, could that be simple propaganda to keep Good Christian Folk on the Straight and Narrow?

Before tonight, she would have remonstrated herself for letting such a concept enter her head. She would have been thoroughly ashamed.

She looks down momentarily, trying to collect her thoughts. “I... I don't know what to say. Thank you. I mean- I didn't expect- This is just... so hard to believe.”

He stands up, walking towards her and offering her his hand. “You're very welcome. But it's nothing less than you deserve.”

She accepts the offer, a rush of giddy sensation rolling through her as his strong, leather-bound male hand encases her delicate, naked, female one. Standing up proves to be more of a challenge than she imagined, her legs as weak as a newborn fawn's. He immediately slips his arm around her waist, and she clings to him as he gently guides her towards the bench, rivulets of his warm seed trickling down her legs. Just like that, her demon horniness returns, and for a moment she's not sure whether what she wants on her lips and in her mouth is the taste of food, or his skin.

Or his ejaculate.

“I'm leaking you,” she whispers, delighted. She doesn't want to ever forget how it felt to have him inside her, climaxing with her, and how much of him there was.

“Indeed,” he replies wryly, helping her onto the seat, which, she notes with gratitude, is now covered with a blanket. An extra one sits folded neatly to her left, which her lover immediately picks up and wraps around her. “Shameful, wicked little sinner.”

_Ba-boom_ , goes her heart. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. _Oh f- uck,_ goes her internal voice, the expletives she had kept repressed for so long relishing any opportunity to be spoken or thought. How different those words are, coming from his mouth, as opposed to her former family's.

“ _Black Phillip says you are wicked.”_ Mercy was right after all. They all were.

Before she is even aware of her own actions, her hand is reaching towards his crotch as he sits down beside her. Famished though she is, desire overcomes reason, and she needs to touch him, make him hard again; the compulsion to surrender to the carnal forces she has given herself to, and revel in them, is for that moment more desperate than the rumbling of her long empty stomach.

He catches her wrist. “Not yet, child.”

Thwarted, she fixes him with an imploring look, surprising herself with her own boldness. “Why?”

Consumed with paranoia and rage, her mother had called her a slut. Perhaps she hadn't been too far from the truth after all.

He places her arm on the table, beside the bowl of stew. “Because there will be plenty of time for that later. _Plenty_. And if you don't eat, you won't have the energy to, will you?”

She acquiesces; he's right. What were a couple of hours when she had spent two years waiting for him, anyway? And she _is_ hungry, hungrier than ever before. The spoon is already in her hand, and with that first mouthful—food, glorious and hot and full of rich flavor, food—all notion of propriety is gone. She shovels the savory goodness in as if it were a matter of utmost urgency, eyes closing with every burst of unremitting flavor. So lost in her edible reverie is she that she almost forgets Papa is there, and it is only when he says her name softly that she realises what a savage she must seem to him.

She halts, suppressing a small burp from ingesting too much air, and looks at him sheepishly. Her deceased family, her whole former society, would be appalled. Even the salacious Rebecca, who she had both disliked and envied, would behave with more decorum.

“I... uh...” she begins; even though his expression is kind, she feels the need to explain herself to him. In her old life, she knew where she stood, inauspicious though that place was; in this new one, she has no such compass, and it's as daunting as it exciting. The fact that she is a different person now is still sinking in.

“Ssshh,” he soothes, stroking the back of a gloved hand down her cheek. “It's OK. Just slow down a little so you don't make yourself sick.”

“Eating like this,” she ventures, in spite of his understanding, “it isn't me.”

“Child, you're hungry. You are excused. Please.” He gestures towards the stew.

“Thank you,” she says, before taking another mouthful, slower this time. She can relax now. It's OK. She is being allowed to breathe, unconstrained, and when she considers it, the enormity of such a freedom nearly makes her feel drunk.

They regard each other as she eats, a silence that feels comfortable, companionable, despite the newness of their relationship. Whilst she knows it may take a while acclimatizing to whoever the reborn Thomasin is, she realizes that in Papa's company she feels oddly at ease, as if they already go way back.

Perhaps they do.

In all honesty, she cannot recall when she last felt like this around anyone, if ever at all.

“This is really good,” she says. “Not just because I'm hungry. It tastes so...” she searches for the right words, “decadent. Not allowed. I'm tired of bland, I'm tired of drab, I'm fed up of just... this... this numb acceptance that there's nothing more to life. That's your lot: that's it. You wear drab clothes and you eat bland food, and you toil and struggle until you die, and if you're a woman it's an utterly thankless existence. It was like that in England, and it's like that here. No: I want taste and color and something to _stimulate_ me. I want something to feel passionate about.”

“You feel very strongly about this stew, don't you?” he replies with a wry grin.

She blushes, momentarily a little embarrassed for her outburst. “I... went a bit over the top there...”

“Not at all. In fact, you could do with giving the table a good thump—just not when there's food on it.”

She giggles.

“Thomasin” he continues, “this is why Satan chose you. He and I know you deserve better. And you will _have_ better: all the taste, color, stimulation and _passion_ you desire. Everything.” He pauses, reaching to stroke her cheek, trail leather-clad knuckles along her chin. “If the world hates you, understand that it hated me first. If you were of the world, it would love you as its own. Instead, the world hates you, because you are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world.”

John 15:18, she remembers, reinvented through a Satanic tongue. The Bible never sounded so mesmerizing.

He holds her gaze for a long beat, one of those time standing still moments where everything in the entire world simply halts, waiting for hearts to beat and lungs to breathe once more. All except the fire, that is, frolicking and crackling obliviously in the background.

The spell is broken by the hoot of an owl, but if it hadn't come Thomasin wonders how long she could have remained in such a state, intoxicated by this son of the Devil and his magical wiles.

Papa smiles, gestures towards the food. “Are you still hungry?”

She nods, taking another large mouthful. “You didn't just...magic this out of thin air, did you?” she asks. “Click your fingers and-?” She clicks her fingers, to the manifestation of nothing magical.

A small laugh, warm and kind. He finds her naivete amusing, but he is not ridiculing her. “Not quite. We are amongst friends out here.”

Friends now; formerly enemies.

“The witch of the wood?”

“Witch _es_.”

“You've... had a coven cooking for me?”

He laughs. “You sleep like the dead. There've been twenty people coming and going.”

“Twe-?!” Shocked, she drops her spoon. It lands in the bowl, a mini geyser of savory juice splattering onto the table, to which they both chuckle. “If you're going to be clumsy, Thomasin, at least don't make a mess of yourself in the process,” she mock remonstrates herself.

“Perfectly executed,” Papa notes with a nod. “It takes more skill than you think.”

“Beginner's luck,” she contends.

“Skill,” he insists coolly. “I know it when I see it. When I rolled past you in my coach, I thought, here's a girl who knows how to drop a spoon into a bowl of stew, just so. That's what determines a true witch.”

She snorts with laughter, infinitely pleased her mouth isn't full at that precise instant lest more spluttering surely occur.

“Speaking of,” the dark man continues, “slight exaggeration when I said twenty. There were six, not including our drivers. And you'll meet them very soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ Fun fact: fireflies attribute their glow to the substrate luciferin, and the enzyme luciferase. It would have been apt to include this little detail into the story, but I chose not to, on account of those terms not being invented until the 19th century, and amount of other historical-related liberties taken.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ 2020/8/1 EDIT:   
> I've changed the part of 'Blue Skyed Eternity' where Thomasin has a "vision" to something that's no longer a "vision". To be honest, I never liked that part to begin with--"vision" is way too cliche, Magical Girl MarySue-ish--but I called it that because for the life of me I couldn't recall the term I actually intended. I've since remembered that term, and altered the section in question. 
> 
> ~ As this is fiction, please excuse the taking of several creative liberties with reality, history being one of them. Don't worry, we don't exactly have people using smartphones, or large-scale fracking operations taking place, but certain technological, agricultural and industrial advancements have been manipulated slightly in order to fit the plot. 
> 
> ~ Info dumping is my nemesis. If anyone cares to advise me on how I can avoid turning into Tolkein in my world building, that would be fantastic. It's a trap I strive to avoid, but invariably end up falling into. I TRY TO RESIST, BUT THE POWER OF INFO-DUMPING COMPELLS ME!
> 
> ~ Constructive criticism from anyone learned in geology or structural engineering is very welcome—heck, constructive criticism on any aspect of my writing is welcome. Please feel free to call me out on any egregious errors. 
> 
> ~ Fun fact: my HC that the Papas are related to Elizabeth Báthory has a basis in reality. If you've researched Báthory history, you may know what I'm referring to. 
> 
> ~ The folkloric tale of tudós kocsis (pronounced “too-dozh koch-sheesh) is very real. It has several variations and interpretations, one of which is remarkably similar to The Witch canon, so I couldn't resist including it.
> 
> \- - - - - - - -

Unlike her last journey into the wilderness, consternation like a leaden weight in her chest, Thomasin had watched with interest as the scenery rolled by. With it, the sky had brightened. When the coach had drawn to a halt in the middle of nowhere, Papa saying they had arrived, she had thought he was joking. Stepping from the coach into the crisp, mid-morning light, she had turned full circle, seeing only more wilderness, and still failing to comprehend what he meant. Except for a farmstead they had passed about half a mile back, there was nothing. Then the taller coachman strode off a little way, retrieved a set of keys from his garment pocket, crouched down, and opened a heavy duty door in the ground.

Ingenious.

Somewhere, 400 feet beneath the New England soil, lies a village. Officially, it doesn't exist. There is no record of it, documented or spoken. Few settlers from the old world know about it, much less speak of it, and those privy to such knowledge guard the truth of it with their lives. The Algonquin have sensed it since its inception, watched its clues appear, but keep it shrouded in the secrecy of their own language, and leave the place well alone.

Although this village has been fully functional for over two decades, it has taken hundreds of years to construct. It was created for one purpose, even before that purpose came to be. Of course, rumors regarding its inhabitants occasionally occur, because things happen that defy all rational explanation, but proof is always just a little too elusive. Likewise, it's architects, structural engineers, its miners and its builders, who to the natives appeared seemingly out of the aether, are believed to have mostly since vanished back there.

Situated alongside two rivers—one below ground, the other above—plus a freshwater lake, and given their ownership of a nearby farm and a grist mill, the dwellers are a largely self contained society. Save for twice weekly trips to markets to hawk their wares, trade furs, and stock up on the few supplies they cannot produce themselves, when any of them venture beyond limits it is usually for leisure, rather than necessity. They don't generally shy the above ground world, but they concentrate the bulk of their spiritual activities beneath it.

The giveaways hide in plain sight: a trap door near to an expansive lake, a farmstead barely a quarter mile away on one side, a grist mill and blacksmith on the other, plus the occasional hole in the ground large enough for a grown man to fall into without touching the sides. No-one suspects that one of the barns houses the coach of a notorious Hungarian serial killer, nor that those working in the farm and mill answer not to God, but his polar rival. The holes are the biggest anomaly, but no-one investigates them. Passing travellers will sometimes drop stones down them, but never hear those stones reach the bottom, evidence enough that whatever lurks down in that pitch darkness should be left there. Fear of the unknown works terrifically to the village's advantage.

The three nearby enterprises are registered to a Mr. Csaba Fekete and a Miss Karin Berglund, who plenty of people have seen. The former's facial appearance remains somewhat of a mystery, on account of it being concealed by bandages; it is believed he has an unknown medical condition causing his skin to itch uncontrollably when exposed to light. In conjunction with his broad frame, and gigantic height of 6'7, some joke of him being a vampire.

It's all nonsense, though; the old man's real surname is Báthory, and he does not have an intolerance to light. Nor is he a vampire. The subterranean society belongs to the Church of the Bathorial Luciferian Order, a sect formed by the great grandfather of the now deceased countess Báthory Erzsébet . It is now helmed by her elder brother, and their third cousin from Sweden, the very Csaba Fekete and Karin Berglund, respectively, known by their official titles as Grand Papa Emeritus Nihil, and Sister Imperator. The irony and pomposity of those titles, and the pleasant, even jovial face they present to the public, belies the fact that they have killed people. Unlike their blood countess relative, murder isn't a routine exercise for them—in fact, they regard Erzsébet's transgressions as quite the embarrassment, and a cautionary tale of practising Satanism the wrong way. However, anyone who strays too close to the truth—and they are very few—has to be dispatched.

Berenice closes the trap door behind her. In the stairwell the air is still and cool, carrying the faintly sweet aroma of the numerous sconces. They are big on irony here, using, among many things, the same candles as those supplied to churches. The best thing about those candles, however, isn't their significance as instruments of ecclesiastical mockery, but how cleanly and brightly they burn, void of the smoke and foul stench regular tallow candles would emit when the animal fat hadn't been properly filtered out. _Even the wax is better here_ , Thomasin had thought as Papa led her down that inaugural flight of steps.

The duo descend those 50 steps, take a left left onto a stone platform. Directly to the left of that, they enter a wooden carriage, inside a steel-reinforced cage. The brunette woman pulls a chain, to which a bell sounds, its chime reverberating off the stone walls. Far below, a feat of ghoul-powered engineering cranks into action, and the cage begins its course downward. To the platform's right, it's a further 375 feet and 750 winding steps to the ground, but most human inhabitants use the elevator in either direction, if only for expediency's sake. Thomasin's first ride in the nifty little contraption terrified her, but now she's completely acclimatized to it.

She does not, however, take for granted what a marvel her home is; it amazes her every time she wanders through it, or disembarks from the elevator. She had spent her first guided tour awestruck, feeling as if she were in a dream, much to Papa's amusement. It is as if some magical hand reached into a town center, scooped up several streets, and simply deposited them here. The interior of each building ranges from cosy low light, to bright as blaring sun, rendering the place deceptively like any regular, above-ground settlement; were it not for permanent evening ambience in the streets themselves, and the constant, omnipresent churning, whirring and whooshing of the elaborate ventilation system, you could almost forget how far down you were.

At the settlement proper's depth, the air stabilizes at a constant, temperate climate, and the plumbing excavation a further 50 feet below, too. The mass of soil insulates the settlement from the winter cold, and shields it against the blistering summer heat. Although the use of candles and lamps is extravagant—audacious, in fact, by anyone's standards—the warmth they generate raises the temperature only to that of an early May afternoon.

Those idyllic perks bely a crucial fact: a significant amount of work is required to keep human inhabitants from perishing.

One of the starkest differences between here and Thomasin's previous abodes is the lack of quiet. Whereas everywhere else there would be a time, if only for a few small hours, where the world seemed as silent as the grave, here there is always some form of permanent noise, however unobtrusive, because underground living relies on a heavy industrial load. An army of masked, clothed, humanoid creatures straight out of a fairytale, comprise the nuts and bolts of the operation—they are the ghouls, and they toil ceaselessly in their numerous workstations, operating the wheels, the fans, the pumps, and every other ingenious piece of machinery upon which the fundamentals of survival depend. Resultantly, it is never even close to silent. She likes it that way, though, and is sure she would miss it if she ever had to leave.

The two women walk along the lamp-lit street. It's deserted tonight, and the interior of each enterprise dark, all but the current shift of worker ghouls in attendance at the cathedral. If animals dwelt down here, this would be the time they would emerge, and Thomasin imagines that just around every corner could be lurking a cat, a stray dog, perhaps an urban fox, ready to go on the hunt. But the nearest animals are up above, in the farmstead. Not even a bird has chosen this place for a home.

Their path takes them past the extensive apothecary on one side, the establishment responsible for the sisters' contraceptives, without which there would be a small army of children already. On the other side a cobbler, milliner, and tailor, all of which had proved an interesting experience for Thomasin when being fitted for her ceremonial garb. Encountering supernatural beings was one thing; interacting with them, and listening to them chatter in their own language as they went about their business measuring, poking and prodding, was another entirely. The creatures wore uniforms according to their profession, or the type of labor they specialized in. Masks worn by retailers left a triangular section of the lower face exposed, displaying obsidian-black skin, and mouths containing a set of nightmarishly sharp, white teeth. Those with bare hands revealed equally lethal looking black talons, which, even in the case of those who had to keep theirs short, were clearly capable of causing serious damage to delicate human skin. Despite Papa's and her sisters' reassurance that ghouls would never harm their masters, Thomasin didn't fancy trying to get on the wrong side of them. During the measuring and fitting process, she had stood there, comically stock still, afraid to move in case she accidentally nicked herself on one of those deadly blades, which everyone except her had found quite hilarious.

Of all the buildings here, the cathedral is without doubt the most impressive. This palace of limestone and marble, of stained glass and jewel and precious metal, is such a far cry from her humble beginnings that, when she first saw it, she almost expects to wake up at any moment in her cold, mattress bed. Surrounded by such dizzying splendor and magnificence, she still walks wide-eyed and amazed. Calvinist society and its church preached to reject such trappings. Theirs was spiritual wealth, not material, they would say—although in her heart of hearts she felt, she knew, avarice dwelt as much there beneath the surface as it did anywhere else.

Visible from anywhere, its 350 foot spire presides over the entire excavation, creating the illusion of being closer than it is. In their free time, some of the ghouls love to climb it, which is quite a sight to behold. Even on her coach journey here, never could she have imagined that seeing creatures from another plane just scaling vertical heights and poised atop them, like gargoyles, would be a daily occurrence. It's an uncanny privilege, for sure. Seeing them there especially, having fun like children, she wonders how they feel about their human masters. They are pliant and obedient, working without complaint, in a similar way to how Puritan women are expected to be... and in much the same way she too would have been, had her parents lived to send her away to serve as a maid. It is not their _place_ to complain. She wonders, though, whether they accept a life of servitude because it's all they've ever known, or if some, like she used to do, dream of freedom, of surpassing their lot in life. It's impossible to decipher if any of them are happy, or whether happiness is even part of the equation for them. They certainly enjoy the lust-fuelled nocturnal atmosphere in the place—no enforced inter-species prostitution goes on, that much is clear—but there is a lot more to happiness than simply getting your rocks off.

Maybe one day she'll try to talk to one at length. They are forbidden from initiating conversations with their superiors in all but matters of utmost urgency, but it's not discouraged for those superiors to converse with them. That the Church's highest ranking, including her Papa, never do, is of no consequence—as much as she loves and respects him, his story is of wealth and privilege. The man is one of the most dedicated, diligent individuals she has ever known, but, except for those two years in the guise of Black Phillip, he has never been personally familiar with actual hardship. Unlike her, he shares no common ground with his servants, and for all the sympathy and compassion he extends to his flock, little effort is made towards the ghouls.

So, one day, maybe, when she can figure out how to couch it, she might talk to them.

Tonight, her mind is on other things. Those things await her at the end of this very street, where the _coachman_ has guided her.

_I will guide thy hand._

The duo pass more little hubs of industry, each step increasing Thomasin's dizzy mix of excitement and stage fright a fraction further. A weaver; a printer; a cooper; a carpenter; and then the all important tavern, infamous for the antics of her Papa's younger brother, László, officially Papa Emeritus III, who often stumbles out blind drunk with a bunch of sisters, singing his merry heart out—all are shut for tonight's event, but seem somehow as silently alive and expectant as the night outside.

She can feel it. The world is charged, poised, holding its breath in anticipation.

Twenty paces from the cathedral, the two women stop. Berenice takes the novitiate's face in her hands, kisses her gently, and whispers, “Good luck.” Then she sprints away and into the building, to take her place amongst the attendees. Thomasin waits, knowing she must make this final journey alone, just as she did a mere eighteen months ago when she heard that raven's call.

She closes her eyes, inhales deeply the honey-tinged air, counts to ten. Exhales, opening her eyes at the same time.

She is ready.

\- - - - - - - -

Floating down from the canopy of the trees, she feels exalted. Warmth surrounds her—warmth of the bonfire, and their love. It has made her drunk, and it feels unreal. They approach her in slow motion somehow, like creeping mist, and in turn touch her face, stroke her hair, place the softest of kisses on her lips, all the while whispering in tongues. She doesn't understand what they are saying, but it doesn't phase her; she goes with it, watching them, drinking them in, letting them become part of her, and she of them.

When they are done, she turns to look at Papa—their Papa. He is observing her, the hint of a smile on his full lips. He is also evidently aroused.

Her hitherto blissfully serene heart reacts with a thud.

The six women watch her, susurrating, as she treads toward him, and in those few paces she feels as if her senses have burst into song, taking a heady amount of pleasure in simply experiencing every moment. She neither understands nor questions why, and neither does she care, because it feels good, the air rich with wood smoke and the cool earth beneath her feet and the otherworldly whispers and the sight of the man beholding her. The whole world feels comprised of pure sensuality.

“Can I-?” she begins, glancing at the protrusion in his vestments. She wants to do those very things her Calvinist upbringing forbade: kneel before him and revere him with her mouth and hands until he crests, and do so before the enraptured eyes of others. An exhilarating little shiver runs through her at the wickedness of the idea.

His smile darkens, like the luxurious addition of molasses into bread mix. “Let's go,” he says softly. “It's a long journey home, and we need _something_ to fill the time.”

She casts a glance at her new brethren, before accepting the blanket Papa offers to her, and wrapping it around herself. She slips her free hand into his, gratefully letting him lead her. His erection would be an equally solid object to hold on to, but she reckons it's off limits until they reach their vehicle.

Her previously weak legs have recovered thanks to her first proper meal in months, and the high of the sabbath, and she feels so charged with supernatural energy that she could walk for miles, even in her shoeless state.

They walk past the group, in the other direction from what used to be her home. As the fire light recedes, so the moonlight increases, pooling through the spaces in the trees, tingeing every object with a bright white lining. The disproportionate shadows it paints seem to Thomasin more like creatures here but not here, visible from some parallel dimension. She wonders if she were to put her hand in one, whether that hand would remain or disappear.

The pair trek on a slight incline through varying quantities of trees and plants, the rustling of their movements the only sound, louder for the uncharacteristic absence of animals and insects. Nothing stirs, every nocturnal being instead sequestered in the safety of foliage or undergrowth, regarding the man and young woman either in fear, or curious silence. Thomasin realises she is further now than she herself had ever dared stray—she is in the very darkness she ran, directionless, through in dreams, except now the swarms of night invite her, beckoning her on.

Several minutes later they reach a wide clearing, and onto a scene of captivating beauty. The clearing stretches on, up and over a small hill that looks oddly naked above the archipelagos of tree clusters. Covered by a shining carpet of moonlight, with the dew on each blade of grass transformed into a billion glistening diamonds, it seems near phantasmagoric. The world seems new, more alive and resplendent and full of wonders just waiting to be discovered, than ever before. This is not the New World her family dreamed of, but right now it feels like hers. To think this was all so near, and yet, until tonight, she never knew of it.

They ascend the slope. From the top, looking down, she sees a river, and close to its banks a crude track painted white-gold in the nocturnal rays... and on that track, the magnificent black coach that had passed by her on that fateful day two years ago, its four jet black horses in formation. Three drivers, all clad in identical black robes and bauta masks, are standing beside it, immersed in animated conversation.

Papa slips his arms around her waist, helping her tread a careful, gradual path down to level ground.

“There's a tale in Hungarian folklore called _tudós kocsis_ ,” he says as they descend. “In Algonquin folklore, too. It means a knowing coachman, a person gifted with supernatural abilities, whose job it is to guide others to an important destination. Of course, he's not necessarily a literal coachman, and he doesn't always work alone. His powers allow him to see into certain people, to understand them in a way they do not even understand themselves. He shows up at the right place and time, knowing their name. When he calls to them, they either choose to follow him, or they don't. It isn't always a conscious choice, but they are the ones who make it. If they accept his guidance, he will take them to the place they need to be, which isn't usually where they start out _wanting_ to be.” A knowing smile creeps across his inked face. “Do you follow?”

She returns his smile, nodding. She follows, absolutely.

“But you want to be where we're going now,” he asserts, as they reach the coach.

“Yes,” she agrees. She could still change her mind now if she wanted to, but she doesn't want to.

The drivers—their literal coachmen, if not her spiritual ones—fall into reverential silence at their passengers' arrival. Although they make no eye contact with her or Papa, she wonders with a little giddy shiver if they've noticed his arousal, which hasn't deflated since leaving the bonfire. For Calvinists, such exhibitionism from anyone, regardless of social standing, was an abject crime punishable by a period in the stocks, a hefty fine, and an equally hefty overhang of public disdain that took months to atone for. Sexual matters were strictly private, and, as Rebecca had told her, if a man or boy got an erection, he had to strap it down, even conceal it with additional clothing if need be. Yet here this son of Lucifer is, parading his desire without even a scintilla of shame.

Lord or Satan or whoever have mercy, she wants to touch him so badly.

He catches her looking, coveting him, and her cheeks flush bright red in response, as if the last few hours haven't happened, and she is still a Good Puritan Girl who has to experience her sins sneakily and always with remorse. But she likes the feeling, the naughtiness—it enhances the thrill factor, the sense of forbidden adventure.

Papa holds the door of the lavish vehicle open for her, and she climbs aboard, into a capsule of jaw-dropping opulence. Two ornately gilded lamps hanging from wall hooks, and one from the ceiling, illuminate the spacious interior, revealing a plush, black leather seat wide enough for three grown men, and walls, floors, and a ceiling decked out in tufted black velvet. This luxurious black creation is offset by brocaded, emerald green curtains, which sit open at the four windows. Everything is pristine, void of scratches or smudges, or anything that would indicate use. Every blanket her hovel of a home possessed lies folded neatly on the far side of the seat, looking woefully out of place in their ash gray austerity, and no doubt far dirtier than this interior has ever been.

She settles into the seat, believing and not quite believing what is happening to her. This coach undoubtedly cost more than a lifetime of any employed Puritan's earnings, and here she is departing to her new life in it, following her entire family's death. Perhaps she should feel that this is wrong, that what she has chosen and is choosing is indefensible, and she should finally change her mind and flee back into the forest.

But she does not serve that master any more.

Papa takes his place beside her, then reaches out and closes the door. Moments later comes the sound of a whip cracking, and the coach sets off. This is it: she's finally leaving, running into that vast, black unknown. Too late for regrets now.

Papa fixes her with that gentle, insightful half smile, and she smiles back. Then, his leather-encased hand is touching her hair, threading through it, twirling the front strands around his long fingers, and she feels the temperature rise.

Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom.

“Are you still hungry?” he intones darkly, all sultriness and wicked temptation.

She glances at his lap, noting his ardent arousal, and nods.

He slips the blanket from her shoulders, leans towards her, and caresses the shell of her ear with a whispered “On your knees.”


	3. UPDATE: of tumbleweed and ancient mariners, oral shenanigans and Satanic coaches

Well then, how is everyone during these unconventional times? Is anyone still here?

*Tumbleweed blows across the screen.*  
*Far in the distance, his form fluttering, warped by heat waves, an ancient mariner adrift in the desert throws me a cockeyed glance, muttering something about lobsters.* 

The reason I ended up not updating this fic was because I felt discouraged by the decline in readership. This is no-one's fault but my own, and there should be no blame attributed to anyone for simply not being interested. They say you should write for yourself, and be content with making yourself happy, irrespective of others, and I take my hat off to whoever can, because that's truly admirable. Writing is indeed fun for me, but it's the sharing with others, and knowing I'm making them happy, that enthuses me most. Wanting positive recognition is perfectly natural, and doesn't make someone a bad person (after all, why else do we readily share our lives online with strangers?). 

But it seems I'm just not writing what people want to read, simple as that. 

So, instead of choosing the practical, rational route, and changing this fic's status to 'abandoned and discontinued', because even contemplating continuing it is an exercise in utter futility, what am I doing? 

That's right! It's...  
ABSOLUTELY NO-ONE:  
ME: HEY, PEOPLE! HOW ABOUT A NEW CHAPTER WITHIN THE NEXT SIX WEEKS!? WHADDAYASAY?  
ABSOLUTELY NO-ONE:  
ME: It's got our little witchy girl romancing Papa's manhood orally in a Satanic coach! Whip crack away!  
ABSOLUTELY NO-ONE:  
ME: I WILL GODDAMN PAY EACH AND EVERY READER IN HAND SANITZER GEL, TOILET PAPER, AND BLEACH, IF YOU SAY YES. I hoarded that stuff early, because I'm smart™ (read: I didn't. But I will happily pay you in the currency of happiness, joy, and an abundance of emojis befitting someone a third my age. How's that sound? Good? EEEEEGGGGSSSELLENT!!!). 

TLDR: This fic might be getting updated soon with some oral shenanigans in a speeding coach. If you're still on board for that, great, and I hope to see you soon.


	4. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ 2020/8/1 EDIT:   
> I've changed the part of 'Blue Skyed Eternity' where Thomasin has a "vision" to something that's no longer a "vision". To be honest, I never liked that part to begin with--"vision" is way too cliche, Magical Girl MarySue-ish--but I called it that because for the life of me I couldn't recall the term I actually intended. I've since remembered that term, and altered the section in question. 
> 
> ~ Perhaps I should have specified at the outset that I'm well aware Berenice's youthful appearance is purely a glamor. That gnarled old hand was visible a mile off—I simply chose to disregard it in my story, and have the old hag witch and young witch be two separate people, to fit in with the plot (that's what fanfiction is for, after all). No-one's hauled me up over it, but it's been bothering me nonetheless, so to quell that irritating little nagging voice in my head I decided to make a note about it. I have added this to the notes of the first chapter retrospectively.
> 
> ~ I apologize for the excessive amount of times I've begun sentences with “She”, “The”, or “It” in this and the following chapter, and the general similarity in sentence structure in general. Constructive critique, and offers to beta, are always welcome. One of the reasons these next two chapters have taken so long to post is that I wrote most of them weeks ago with a view to redrafting them, but every time I went back to make such alterations I just couldn't come up with anything other than what I had already written. Although my imagination is no less productive, my brain's literary flexibility has taken a nosedive, which is extremely frustrating. Ergo, I've decided to post the current chapter as is, and maybe in time (read: when no-one's reading Papa II or VVitch fics anymore) give it another go. We'll see. Oh, and I've probably still missed a typo or several—it doesn't matter how fine toothed a comb I inspect my writing with, or how many times; I still manage to overlook a bunch of them. Again, all corrections are very welcome.

**Chapter 3**

The whole place is empty, void of life. The air within it is vaporous and unnaturally still, hovering within a dream-like, indistinct atmosphere. It's like walking through an empty school or a deserted town—places which should contain life, but for some reason now desperately lack it. Something is missing.

Like her former homestead, all inhabitants dead, or presumed so, she thinks with inexplicable detachment.

Wait- How exactly does she know that? Or, more precisely, how does she _know_ she knows it? And why does she not believe she herself is dead, either? Why is she not distraught? Where there should be a tumult of emotion, there is simply... absence.

She blinks several times in quick succession, shrugging to herself. She just knows, feels, these things, and it doesn't matter how. For now at least.

Is there also a possible sense of danger here, she wonders? A sense that all too familiar with uncharacteristically empty places—the fear of the unknown, the creeping suspicion of a malevolent figure lurking in the woods, the shadows or waiting patiently behind a closed door, praying on the unsuspecting victim?

But is she genuinely afraid?

A thought bubbles up: she has been here before—perhaps not this precise place, but somewhere like it.

Nevertheless, curiosity compels her, because she doesn't recall how she has ended up wherever she currently is. She remembers nothing at all. It's as if she has instantly materialized here, standing in this 7 foot wide space that appears to be an extremely long corridor, deep in the bowels of some vast building. She can't even recall the last thing she did before arriving.

Of course! She must be asleep, and dreaming. This is a lucid dream, just like the ones she's had before, in which she encountered Black Phillip, and a faceless stranger.

Or were those dreams? Now that she thinks of it, she can't remember if they were.

She begins whistling to herself before the silence can strike fear into her. Or maybe her whistling proves that it already has?

No, she will not panic. This can only be a dream, and the fact that she is aware of it means she is safe. If anything untoward happens, she can wake herself up.

She inspects her body, noticing she is naked. Her hair is loose. It doesn't bother her, because she knows she can conjure herself some clothing and shoes if she needs to, but she decides to test it just in case some random dream person were to appear out of the ether too. She thinks of her shift and her boots, but nothing happens. She tries again, but to no avail. Once more... Nothing.

So she can't control everything within a lucid dream? Too bad. Yet, for some reason, she is not ashamed of her nakedness, nor does she feel particularly vulnerable. It's a dream, and even if she doesn't have the skills to control it completely she can at least wake up when she chooses.

The walls of the corridor are an uncompromising black, glassy like a polished marble ornament, and the cool, bare floor to match. Their surface seems somehow dynamic, as if she could press her palm into them and they would undulate to take the pressure. She presses. They don't undulate.

So much for that, then.

Indeed, this dream cannot be controlled. Maybe this is commonplace for a novice lucid dreamer?

Above her, in the center of the ceiling—also pitch black—a long, thin line of pin-hole stars spanning the entire length of the corridor, emitting a soft, crystalline white glow. Below, a continuous row of the same, running alongside the left and right wall. They make no sound, but, intriguingly, she can hear them in her head, a hypnotic but faraway hum.

She turns 360 degrees, scoping out the rest of her surroundings. It looks identical either way, just a dark corridor which forks at right angles around a hundred feet from where she stands. No doors anywhere, apparently; at least, no obvious ones. Just where in God's name was this place? How did she even create it? Why does it seem somehow familiar?

She treads slowly and softly along the corridor, her ears finely tuned to pick up any tiny particle of noise. But she hears nothing, save her own breathing.

Empty.

“Hello?”

Her voice bounces off the walls and quickly dissipates. There is no-one else here.

Then why does she sense a presence behind her?

 _Don't look,_ she tells herself. _Stay calm._

No, she is imagining things. If she turned around, no-one would be there, because-

 _No, no. That's wrong._ It's already been established that she cannot exert full control over this dream.

The hairs on the back of her neck are standing to attention. The presence remains, deathly still, deathly silent. Waiting for her acknowledgement.

Her family is dead. Samuel; Caleb; Mercy and Jonas; her father and her mother; the livestock; but not her. Is it one of them who is waiting? Are they here to transport her to whatever afterlife they've disappeared to?

That afterlife being Hell.

No. No. She will not let her mind go there.

She wastes a few moments arguing with herself. Ignore the presence vs don't ignore it; reality logic vs dream logic; she shouldn't be scared, vs having every reason to be scared. All the while, the presence does not waver.

_So, what are you going to do?_

_They've come up from Hell to claim me. It's what I deserve. I killed them all._

_No. It's not true._

And how has she come by _that_ knowledge?

“If there's anyone there, please answer me,” she says slowly, carefully, trying to feign calmness.

No answer. Just the dark walls, carrying her voice away.

“Please, just answer yes or no.”

Still no answer.

Turning around vs not turning around. Walking on vs staying put.

She is going to confront her fear; she would rather know than waste time fretting over possibilities.

_One... Two... Three..._

Holding her breath, she turns. Nothing there after all. A beautiful sense of relief fills her.

_See? What did I tell you?_

Well then, she can't now just stand around and hope for the action—whatever it is, if it even exists—to come to her. She has to go exploring. This being a dream, the chances of finding something out of the ordinary aren't so remote.

_It isn't a dream. And you killed them. It's all your fault._

_Be quiet._

Her footsteps, although tentative, bring her to the end of the corridor, which then forks. The corridors to her left and right stand vacant, stretching on seemingly infinitely, the lighting gradually receding into nothingness.

Fear the dark. Fear the unknown. There is evil in the dark. In the woods. Beyond God's light. She saw it when Samuel vanished, when Caleb died, when a grotesque, contorted body appeared in the stable just last night and-

S _top it._

_They won't be there when you wake. They're all dead. Because you-_

_No,_ she tells herself again, resolutely. _Just. Stop. Right now._ If she could grab a hold of herself and shake herself, she would. _You have to stop it. And you can wake up whenever you want._

The right corridor is merely a wall, but ten feet down in the left one is the outline of a door. Not quite a door, because it has no handles, and appears to be cut into the wall itself. A marble door would be too heavy to move anyway. Still, it's something, and it might provide a clue.

She turns left. Upon reaching the door outline she pushes it, hoping for a miracle, but it doesn't budge. A second attempt, with all her weight behind it, makes no difference either, and neither are there any clues to speak of. There is nothing for it but to move on.

Her intuition tells her to go right, so she does. As far as is visible, there appear to be no other doors on the left, so she has nothing to lose by going in the other direction.

She continues down the right corridor, staying close to the wall on her right and trailing her hand along its liquid-smooth surface, her fingertips enjoying the cool, pleasing sensation. The lights became increasingly dim, but her feet keep walking and all of a sudden she is not in control of them anymore, and she doesn't stop, because she cannot stop. Panic begins a renewed appeal in her gut as the darkness closes in on her—no, as she ventures into _it,_ perhaps even against her own will—but she does not stop. Complete blackness swallows her, sending a chill through her entire body. Her breathing becomes more audible, and the speed of her heart kicks up a notch. She strains her eyes to decipher something, but to no avail—she may as well be blind. If someone, or something, is following her, she can only pray her own noises don't drown out their, or its, footsteps. Yet she treks undeterred, arms groping at air like the reanimated dead, something inside telling her she has to do this, has no choice but to do this. She will not stop or turn back, because whatever is behind her might be reaching for her, too, its ice cold, bony fingertips just one step away.

She has been here before. Yes, she is certain of it. Where the darkness leads, and whether it is friend or foe, she does not know, except that she and it are already... intimately acquainted.

Although it seems to stretch on forever, to her surprise, the corridor comes abruptly to an end after what feel like several hundred feet of pure darkness. Another set of dim lights in the floor immediately flicker to life, as if a curtain has just been pulled from across a morning window—a circle, surrounding and illuminating the lowest reaches of a spiral staircase carved from the same material as everything else here appears to be. Like the corridors, it appears to extend on into complete blackness.

She gulps back the fear, the rattled little voices that implore her to retreat and try to find a brighter way, and begins to climb, counting as she goes. After 30 treads the light from the ground filters out, and she is blind once again, grasping tightly to the handrail as she feels her way upwards. Bizarrely, the ascension isn't proving tiring, but her pace is far more cautious, the idea of falling down even a dream staircase not a pleasant one. Every step becomes an exercise in praying she is not being pursued, because now she cannot run, and silently thanking fate for keeping her safe thus far.

As she forges on, losing count of the treads, she has to steel herself, tell herself to hold it together, because there is nowhere else to go and nothing else to do but climb and strive. She cannot let fear or doubt curtail her. Her family are dead and gone and she is all that remains, and she wants to live, has to live, and so-

Lights.

* * *

“On your knees.”

Her father had said that, too, barked it with a face like thunder, suddenly the rigid disciplinarian. To give him his due, he had been no tyrant, but he had struck the fear of God into her then.

Papa's command, however, is a world apart, the difference between night and day. Such a soft voice seems so at odds with that frightening appearance, she thinks. To look at him, she would have thought he growled, bellowed, demanded, took by force; yet instead he whispered, coaxed and seduced, offering a promise so tantalizing it was impossible to resist. And so far, he has delivered on that promise. A not insubstantial little voice in her head wonders if it isn't all too good to be true—perhaps this is a fever dream as she lies dying in the homestead; or, worse yet, maybe she is his sacrificial lamb, first broken down, then enticed with glimpses of earthly delights and sweetened with all that she craves, until reality hits and she realizes she is being tied to an altar, to meet a grisly death by implements of torture.

But right now, that voice is an easy one to ignore.

Their eyes meet, and she is unable to untether herself from his thrall even if she wanted to.

She doesn't want to. What she wants is to be completely at his command, to find that same exhilarating freedom only possible through surrendering to him, a naked young woman to his clothed older man.

Divested of the blanket, but fortunately not at all cold, she shuffles from her seat, holding onto his left thigh to steady herself in the moving vehicle. The firmness of his leg, vaguely warm even through his vestments, makes her remember the strength of that body, the way he used those lean muscles, moving and flexing and contracting against her as he thrust. The blush that had only partially subsided returns, tickling her cheeks, and inciting a subtle smirk on his inked lips—he must know she's thinking of him, of their union.

He knows the depths of her depravity, the sight and sound and smell and taste and feel of it. He always has. There is nowhere she could ever run from this man where he wouldn't find her.

Assuming a kneeling position before him, a God-fearing girl turned sacrilege incarnate, she glances at the bulge in his garments, curiosity and desire getting the better of her. The need to touch him is so strong that she is already taking his garments in hand, trying to slide them up. At the same time, she remembers that the last person she partially undressed was her father, and how precarious it had suddenly felt. Although she had never considered her father in anything but a filial way, that particular time it had sent her mind to that now too familiar place of torment where lust and climaxes lurked: the Stranger's domain. Because hadn't she imagined undressing that faceless man time after time, inspecting his lean—she presumed it would be lean—torso and pressing her palms against his firm chest? That this innocent action between father and daughter inspired thoughts of him had left her ashamed, and distinctly chilled.

Papa stops her with a soft but decisive, “No.”

She looks up at him, confused and dismayed, letting go of his clothes.

“Soon, child,” he coos, brushing leather-bound knuckles down her cheek. “But first, let's take it slow.”

He's toying with her again, the utter bastard. He may be yielding to her needs, but it's all on his terms, and she both hates and loves him for it. Yet, she _likes_ that she hates him for it. The door he had unlocked in her mind had let something out, and now that something, that beastly part of her kept repressed and starved for so long, is running free, intoxicated by freedom, and now too strong and fast to ever catch and contain again.

“Start outside,” he instructs.

She nods. He is her gift, and she has to wait to unwrap him. It is so long since she has been gifted anything.

Her right hand slides over the black satin upon his left leg, until she reaches the tempting protrusion. Her breath hitches as she makes contact, her own arousal blooming at the memory of mere hours ago, feeling him for the first time against her back as he pulled her to him.

He gives a tiny chuckle of acknowledgement, obviously amused and endeared by her novel reactions.

“What do you... like?” she asks, her tone and expression as reverential as if she were praying to her former deity.

Something flares in his eyes, a momentary flash of the most depraved, forbidden desire, like faraway candlelight glinting on a lethal weapon's blade. The promise of a threat.

“You,” he answers softly, stroking her hair. “I like you, purity defiled.”

 _Oh ffffuuck,_ she thinks, her loins clenching, and her hand reacting by closing around his thick, sheathed shaft. What a magically filthy spell he weaves with that serpent's tongue. Before she knows it she'll be dripping an entire puddle onto the plush carpet.

“Do what you want-” he continues, rubbing his thumb gently over her lips.

She can't help but kiss it, sniff it, inhale deeply the rich scent of the leather. He is taunting her, she is sure, because he knows precisely what she wants.

“-except going fast, or removing clothes just yet.”

Damn him.

“And no biting.”

He smears the trace of saliva from her kiss onto her cheek, before trailing his hand away.

She replies with a nod.

He smiles, those piercing eyes now warm.

She turns her gaze to his crotch, out of curiosity as opposed to submission, watching herself as she rubs her palm languidly and lightly upwards along his member, and then back down. She repeats the action, trying to make out the exact contours of him through the double layers, and then with her left hand, but it's impossible. She closes her eyes, decreasing her already slow speed, as if the lack of sight could enhance her other senses, help her map him through touch alone; but it's no use, the fabric mocking her, and she can't stand not to be looking at some part of his body.

There is, however, that subtle and wondrous heat, and that glorious hardness. She wraps her fingers around the base of him, admiring again his girth.

He had filled her with that luxurious thickness, consummating her entirely, together with his skill awakening her to a world of such unimaginable pleasure she had thought she was losing her mind. For Calvinist girls, losing your virginity was generally an underwhelming experience; it was a brief period of awkward fumbling, hushed voices and clumsy hands, followed by probably a little pain, blood, and inexpert jolts of the boy's hips until he pulled out mere minutes later to finish on the girl's stomach. The boy would leave, happy; the girl, unsatisfied and probably frustrated, wondering what all the fuss was about. Sex could improve as both partners matured, so Rebecca had told her, but not without hard work and commitment. It could never be mind-blowing from the get go.

Papa was right: choosing Lucifer certainly did have its perks.

Her mouth is watering in tandem with her sex just remembering it.

She nuzzles into his lap, brushing her face against that irresistible firmness, and filling herself up with the scent of incense-infused black satin. How can he smell like he's just stepped out of a cathedral when he's been in her family barn for two years, she wonders? Had his clothes been preserved in some interdimensional cloak room where sacrilegious fragrances burned eternally?

“I confess I have lived in sin,” she murmurs meekly, almost inaudible through her ministrations and the rumbling of the coach. She's not sure whether she's play acting to turn the nefarious man on—because she's not confessing anything he doesn't already know—or attempting to unburden the Good Girl part of herself, whether to herself or to him, to Satan or the deity she forsook. “I've thought of you mostly every night...” Those garments smell unbelievably good, as if woven from pure spice and perfume itself, but his skin would still be better. “I've dreamed about you. I've found...” He is so close to her, so close, and yet so maddeningly far away. “I've found... pleasure... in myself, imagining you, imagining I was with you.” His stiffness is torturing her. “Please forgive me. I prayed, over and over and over, and I- I...” She needs him. This isn't fair. “But I couldn't stop. I couldn't help it.”

She recalls the stark terror she would feel on occasions she had been dreaming of him, only to be awoken by Caleb, convinced she was having a nightmare or in pain. Sometimes he told her straight away that she had been moaning in her sleep, frowning, writhing a little, which was bad enough, but could nevertheless still be attributed to fear or discomfort. It was the times he said nothing that would mortify her the most, the possibility that he could somehow sense what was going on her head, that her sin was so strong as to have sensual presence. When her mother's weeping was the first sound to assail her ears, an immediate and permanent reminder of her failure as Samuel's sister, she would be certain, if only for a few instants, that Katherine knew, too.

Maybe, during that fateful fight that ended her life, she really _did_ know.

“Look at me, child,” he commands, gently.

She obeys, although her right hand still rests against his erection.

Dear, sweet, forsaken heaven, those eyes are her undoing. He is like the wood of her former home, deep and ominous, but always silently beckoning her.

“So weak, aren't you.” His voice is airy, somewhere between a hiss and a caress, both seductive and chilling simultaneously. “Filthy little thing.” One hand cups the side of her face, the other points an accusatory index finger at her, and suddenly she is very, very small again. “Your first orgasm should have been by me, you know.”

He has known this forever. He even told her so. Why is he chastising her now?

“I'm sorry,” she says, subdued, gazing at him with nervous eyes, at the same time wishing she could hang her head in shame. Mock shame? Real shame? Under such intense scrutiny, she cannot decipher which, except that the basest part of her is taking a sudden, absurd kind of _enjoyment_ in it. She doesn't understand, but she doesn't want it to stop. “But you-” She doesn't intend to challenge him, but the words are out before she can stop them, the part of her that had been cow-towed and constrained for eighteen years now leaping through any available outlet.

“I what?” he interrupts, cool but authoritative. “I what, child?” He forcibly removes her hand from his member.

The lack of contact makes her want to scream.

“You made me- you made me- squirt... for the first time. You claimed my virginity.”

He does not relent. “Indeed. But I waited two long years to taste you. I couldn't fuck as a human for two years. And you couldn't wait for me? I wanted to feel that sweet pussy moisten and heat up under my mouth. I wanted to feel your energy swell until my tongue took you over the edge. But you just couldn't exercise some self restraint, could you. No.”

_Black Phillip says you are wicked._

“That's not-” she begins to protest, barely catching herself before deciding to continue regardless. Half of her wants to rail against the injustice of what he's saying, having seen him as Black Phillip fornicating with the nanny goats, yet the other half is begging _debase me, debase me_. “That's not fair! How did you expect me to last two years?! I didn't even know you were real!”

He smirks, chuckling darkly. “Well well, what a little brat we have.” He takes her by the chin, and his volume drops to a that of a sinister whisper: “I'm going to have to teach you some manners as well as patience.”

Fuck, she really _is_ dripping now. She should be legitimately afraid, and only afraid, cowering and pleading for him not to hurt her. Because she is sure the horrors he could inflict are boundless, and she's only just begun to see what he's capable of. But instead, for some depraved reason beyond her comprehension, the thought of punishment at his hands _arouses_ her. It's wrong and it's absurd, but undeniable.

How can he do this to her, turn her into this wretched, corrupt thing, the slut of her mother's lunacy-driven ravings?

On second thoughts, _he_ didn't actually do anything, did he? He merely saw her for who she was—the deviant, the _witch_ —and helped her to realize it. She should be grateful.

Again, she can't decide whether to defy him or submit, stare him out or look down. She wants so many conflicting things at once: to be bold, yet to be weak; to fight back, yet to be subjugated; to be a brat, yet to be a Good Girl. She settles for holding his gaze, an odd mixture of timidity, apprehension, and hunger—she can't hide the hunger, and even if she could, her reddened cheeks and erect nipples would betray her.

“But I'm feeling generous right now,” he concedes with a hint of smugness, evidently satisfied at the flustered state he's reduced her to. He pauses, then relinquishes her chin, occupying himself instead with a lock of her long hair. “How much do you want it?” he purrs after a long beat, winding the blonde strands around his fingers, and then releasing, before starting again. She is his toy, his doll, his pet.

“So much,” she replies beseechingly.

“Then tell me. Say what you want, sweet girl.”

“I want... I want you.”

“You want to suck your Papa's cock?”

“Yes. Yes.” She nods eagerly. Dear Lord, she is famished. He is destroying her sanity. “Please.”

“Say it.”

“I want to suck your cock, Papa.” She swears that if he doesn't relent soon she'll spontaneously combust. “Please let me suck your cock. Please. Please.” The fact that these words are coming out of her at all still takes her aback. 

Though she is thoroughly humiliating herself, she doesn't care. Tears prick her eyes, desire and need and desperation on the verge of overwhelming her. Yet, as much as it hurts, the sickness in her continues to enjoy it, delighting in being teased, manipulated, and, dare she acknowledge it, enslaved.

“You may.”

And with that, he pulls his vestments up and over his crotch, finally exposing himself to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ Freakish coincidence strikes again. The cathedral in this story boasts a 350 foot spire. 350 foot bears no specific significance—I chose that number purely because it felt like a reasonable middle distance height. However, on a whim I decided to research cathedrals according to spire height. Guess which one just happens to have a 351 foot spire? If you were thinking the one in TF's home town, ding ding ding! CORRECT! The only possible explanation I can fathom is that I chanced upon this information nearly two years ago when researching Linköping Cathedral, internalized it and forgot, although I don't recall ever actually studying the specifics of the place; otherwise, add this to the myriad bizarre Ghostly and VVitchy coincidences that have abounded since the Papa II x Thomasin ship hijacked my life (want me to list them? I would be more than happy to.)


	5. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ 2020/8/1 EDIT:   
> I've changed the part of 'Blue Skyed Eternity' where Thomasin has a "vision" to something that's no longer a "vision". To be honest, I never liked that part to begin with--"vision" is way too cliche, Magical Girl MarySue-ish--but I called it that because for the life of me I couldn't recall the term I actually intended. I've since remembered that term, and altered the section in question. 
> 
> ~ Certain elements of this chapter have absolutely not been inspired by 'The Lighthouse'. Absolutely not. (Hey, why don't you believe me?! Is it because I was arrested wearing a t-shirt with a crazed Willem Dafoe's face on it spouting the words “It's bad luck to kill a sea bird!”, and my mugshot went viral?). 
> 
> ~ Edits to the previous chapter:  
> “ ...Wait a moment—doesn't she remember something about that? When I sleep, my soul-  
> Later. There are more important matters to attend to...” has been deleted. See what getting ahead of yourself with an idea you?  
> “...The fact that these words are coming out of her at all still takes her aback..." Has been added to the third paragraph from the bottom. 
> 
> ~ It wasn't my intention to drip-feed the smut over the course of various chapters, but that's just the way this has worked out. Think of it as akin to edging, as opposed to the female equivalent of blue balls. There's a lot more in store in the next installment! 
> 
> ~ Next chapter in 2-4 weeks. Hope to see you there!

**Chapter 4**

Another series of those blessedly beautiful little lights awake the moment she reaches the top stair. She has reached a platform, and a few paces away, an arched door. A proper door this time, wrought iron, embellished with ornate carvings the faint illuminations cast in mysterious, partial obscurity, and secured with three heavy-duty deadbolt latches.

She glances briefly back at the staircase descending into claustrophobic shadow, sparing a thought for who or whatever may be, or may have been, pursuing her. Was that a near silent, raspy breath she thought she heard? A virtually inaudible footfall? A disturbance of the still air as pointed tips of rotting fingers quest towards her? Panic flares, and she cannot get the door open fast enough.

The latches are freezing to the touch, heavy, and stiff, as if they had not been used since their construction. With monumental effort she manages to pull them free of their trappings, then grabs the handle, pushes hard, and-

-steps outside into more darkness.

Nothing but endless night. Silence. Space without movement, without visible matter, without scent or anything but stars. If it weren't for the stone ground at her feet, she feels she could have been floating. The door closes behind her with a swooshing noise, sweeping a gust of dark air inwards. She startles, swinging around, and notices the door is now practically invisible. The building she has exited is as dark as the heavens—in fact, it appears to be painted in the very fabric of the night sky.

She catches her breath, stunned and bewildered. Her mind, her subconscious, has created this? She recalls having strange dreams before, but never has she constructed a place like this.

And there is really, truly nothing. Everything is asleep, dormant, or... dead. She doesn't want to consider the last one. Something needs to happen, a spark to break through the stillness, disrupt the eerie peace and make everything explode into a frenzy of light and activity.

There it comes again, unbidden: the distinct feeling of familiarity.

What now? She can either slip around the side of the building and try to find another way in—perhaps there is something to find in there if she would only search harder—or she can venture forwards into the darkness and the unknown. Why, she wonders, does she immediately feel so much more inclined towards the latter?

A bright flash, momentarily blinding her.

_What in God's name- ?_

_No,_ she counteracts herself, almost instinctively, _not God._

_What?_ She doesn't understand what she herself is saying. Is she possessed?

Suddenly, she becomes starkly aware of how alone and isolated she is in this vast, dark wilderness, and filled with a creeping terror that staying put means certain death. Her family are gone; she needs to go... go somewhere...

FLASH.

That is the answer, there in the distance: a beacon, signaling out to anyone lost in the blackness. It's white and clean like the moon, not orange like firelight. She wants to run to that white light, to be where it is, to reach its source, to touch it, to know she isn't alone out here. She will reach it, and someone will find her, or already be there waiting for her.

A dread-inducing thought occurs to her: what if there _is_ nothing else? What if that light is the last outpost of civilization in the entire world, the last place that is a something rather than a nothing, but it's abandoned already, its signal merely a ghost? To have hope, and then have that hope dashed, would be worse than the bleakness.

No, it wouldn't. She cannot allow herself to think like that. If there turns out to be nothing, then she will just have to keep going. So she starts walking briskly forwards, then breaks into a run, desperate to reach that enigmatic specter in the distance.

For a third time, a peculiar feeling of déjà vu ambushes her—something to do with running, running aimlessly into the thick of night.

Another flash, and her pace quickens to a sprint, the cool air whipping her hair back in a way she hasn't felt since early childhood back in England. The beacon does not seem to be growing any closer, but determination drives her onward. Her bare feet do not hurt, nor does any other part of her, and she is not at all fatigued. She will run until she finds what she is seeking, or until exhaustion defeats her, but until then she will not stop. Her family are dead, and nothing remains for her back there with them, wherever the back there with them is.

Fate, however, has other ideas, one more flash making her lose her bearings, and tripping, her own propulsion sending her careening into a high, solid object. She falls over, landing on her side with a dull thud. Her right shoulder complains, but she pays it no mind, pulling herself to her feet.

The object is a metal fence twice her height. She frowns, baffled as to where it came from. Wouldn’t the flashing light have illuminated it? Or maybe her head was too preoccupied, too distracted by the light and what she hoped it meant, to notice anything else? Perhaps it has been there all the time?

Now, however, she sees it clearly, and the sea of darkness on the other side.

She walks left, trailing her fingers along the frigid railings in the hope of finding a latch, a gate, any way to gain access. Brief snatches of light reveal only more of the same, but she continues left, whether too hopeful, desperate, or stubborn to quit. There has to be something, if she just keeps going.

But how far could this fence stretch? Miles or more, for all she knows. What is she going to do—venture left until she reaches something, and if that something isn't a way to get into whatever she is on the other side of, run all the way back to where she started and go right? And what if she still finds nothing in that direction? How long would this take? Should she just attempt to climb over the fence? And what if she does climb over it, and runs on, finding only more stone ground below and starry sky above, emptiness in between? What then?

Then, for a reason unknown to her, she feels the urge to turn around.

An apparition rendered entirely in shadow stands a little way from her, too far to properly distinguish. His—all she knows for certain is that the figure is male—darkness is such that he seems to blend into the night. Absurdly, the flash does not touch him, as if he has the power to bend the laws of nature itself.

Yet instead of fear—what she knows she rightly should be feeling—the déjà vu returns, coupled with a compelling curiosity. Will he take her to the light? Does he control the light? Is he the-

Light bearer. Light bringer.

Lucifer.

_When I sleep,_ she recalls herself saying in jest to Mercy,  _my soul leaves my body and dances naked with the Devil._

Except she hadn't been jesting, she suddenly realizes. She has been here, right here in this very place, before, naked as she is now. The dancing didn't have to be literal—it could mean simply being in the Devil's company, couldn't it?

Is she sleeping, or is she dead and already in Hell? Is this the true face of Hell—not fire and brimstone, but ceaseless nothingness and isolation?

She shakes her head, telling herself no, no. He is not. She is not. This is not. She has to wake up and get away from him and this place.

Then why does she not want to wake up?

The apparition permits her no time to think on it, instead stepping away from the railings, turning, and walking in the opposite direction. Automatically, she follows, stopping neither to question why nor to try and reason with herself. Even if he is not Lucifer, that doesn't mean his intentions are benevolent. He could still be leading her into a trap. He could be some amphibious type of male siren, and she will meet her doom under his waves. But it doesn't matter—the risk is worth taking, if only not to be alone out here.

She walks behind him, trying to keep up with his brisk pace. She doesn't expect him to say anything, and so, she asks no questions. Not once does he turn around to check her progress, obviously confident that he is keeping her in toe. That, or she is insignificant to him. Why the latter possibility strikes terror into her heart she has no idea, only that the last thing she wants is to be insignificant to this man.

The flashing light becomes intensely bright, creating the starkest of contrasts between the dense blackness and the lightning whiteness, causing her to squint frantically. Every flash cuts through her like a mute blade, its absence of sound palpable, yet the man in front of her is entirely immune to it.

The figure stops abruptly, and she stops, still too far away to make out anything in the way of detail.

“Do you know where we are?” he asks, softly.

That voice sounds so achingly familiar, a memory just a fraction beyond her grasp.

"No," she replies, her volume barely a whisper, silently pleading with him not to say _Hell_.

"We're everywhere and nowhere at the same time."

That voice... She can almost remember. Almost. So close.

"I don't understand."

She melts into one of the flashes, only to solidify again.

"I wouldn't expect anyone to. Not even you, yet. But you will, very soon."

"What- what do you mean?" What did any of that mean?

"Each time you're here we have the exact same conversation, and each time you forget everything except the feeling that you were here before. Except now. I've never said this to you before, but things are going to change. It's finally the right time. Don't you feel it?"

"I'm sorry- I- I have no idea what you're-"

FLASH.

Then she hears it: a raven's _kraa_ , calling her from beyond.

In an instant she wakes, the dream evaporating. It is now night, and she sits in the same place she had fallen asleep at that morning, huddled over at the bench, and wrapped in her dead parents' blanket. Black Phillip awaits her in the barn. She knows what she has to do.

* * *

For a few prolonged moments she does nothing except behold him, biting her lip, inhaling sharply as her lust surges to a deafening level. Oh, he is so delectable, and she wants, needs, to become intimately familiar with every part of him, to be able to visualize him perfectly whenever she closes her eyes.

The yearning to touch and taste him is absolute, yet, a little butterfly of sudden nervousness takes flight in her stomach at the realization that she has absolutely no idea how to proceed. Clothed, it wasn't a problem, but naked, his cock is like an immaculately crafted ornament that she's afraid to touch for fear of damaging or sullying it. Too bad Rebecca isn't here right now... On second thoughts, that was probably a good thing.

“Papa, I...” she confesses.

Sensing her apprehension, he strokes her head, fixing her with kind eyes. “It's OK,” he soothes, all traces of cruelty gone. He is her benevolent master once again. “There is no right or wrong way to do this, except for going too fast, or biting. Just explore, discover, enjoy. If there's a problem, or if there's anything specific I want, I'll tell you.”

She acknowledges him with a nod.

“So sweet,” he whispers tenderly, studying her for a few heart-stopping seconds as if she is something infinitely precious.

Or maybe she's imagining it. She isn't sure.

Her parents had so rarely looked at her like that of late.

Memories swim into sharp focus, bringing a lump to her throat: those last affectionate words from her mother—”Hurry back.”—whose favor she had sought so earnestly, and had become increasingly hard-won, moments before Caleb returned in a febrile state; the final embrace from her father, that last feeling of protection and love, before paranoia and fury overcame him and his trust in her died; the last hug she shared with Caleb by the brook, giggling together like they used to in their carefree, England-based days, before the interruption from Mercy, bringing with it the reminder of foul play afoot. Although her life had been set on a different course since the moment that imposing carriage rolled past her in the market, she had wanted to be a good daughter and sister nonetheless. The twins had been young and impressionable, theirs an infinity of absolutes, of opposing emotions that could be ignited and extinguished at a finger click—although she loved them, as any sister would, the corrosion of her bond with them nevertheless mattered far less to her than that of her parents, and Caleb. The latter went to his grave steadfastly on her side, unlike the former. She had wanted the reciprocal, unconditional love any parent should feel for their child, and watching it wither in them was more harrowing than the loss of Samuel, more horrifying even than the threat of eternal damnation. Even as her mother had lashed out with murder in her eyes and venom on her tongue, Thomasin had craved that love, begged her for it, uttering over and over in desperate prayer, “I love you. I love you.” as if in those final moments something would click in Katherine's mind and she could be reached.

She bids them go away. All of them. She doesn't want to start crying again.

She closes her eyes, inhales, forcing herself to concentrate on the scents of incense and luxury. This coach is so impeccably clean, and even the floor is comfortable. If she can just think about those things, maybe she can keep the memories at bay.

She holds her breath, exhales. This is her reality now, and she is all right. She is all right. Everything is all right. She opens her eyes.

Papa's expression has changed to one of compassion and concern, and that almost makes things worse.

“Child, we don't need to do this right now if you don't want to,” he says softly. “We've got a while. If there's something on your mind, know that you can talk to me about it. My cock's not going anywhere.”

The unexpected switch from tenderness to humor catches her so off guard that she erupts into laughter. This is what she needed, just what she needed. Papa cups her cheek, smiling warmly, and giving a little snort of amusement. And just like that, the spell is broken, the danger averted. There is a huge amount to process, she knows, a world of grief that she will very likely have to mourn for. It might haunt her, seep into her dreams and the places in between blinks and breaths, but she will deal with it later. Later.

“I'm fine,” she says once her laughter subsides.

“Sure?”

She nods.

“OK.”

The next few moments pass with them regarding each other in mutual but comfortable silence, before she says quietly, “Thank you, Papa.” And really, she cannot thank him enough.

“My pleasure, _kicsim._ That's what I'm here for. _”_

The sound of his native language, so strange and lyrical to her English ears, brings her hurtling back into the here and now. One word, but on his lips it is pure temptation, and now she is keen to express her gratitude.

At long last, her eyes properly drink him in, a little gasp of delight escaping her as she presses her fingertips to his sex. There is that surprising heat again, heat that had been inside her, enhancing all those new and beautiful sensations. Tentatively, she tiptoes her digits along the engorged flesh, registering and logging the topography as she goes: the baby-soft skin stretched taut around firm muscle; the encased rivulet of a large vein, and its tributaries; the margin between his retracted foreskin and the exposed, slightly darker skin beneath; the smooth ridge of demarcation between shaft and cock head, and their differing textures; the little bow string running vertically beneath, similar to the cord underneath her tongue; the delicate urethral slit. It's as if she's a schoolgirl again, hungry for knowledge, exploring this uncharted terrain awestruck.

“You like that?” he utters wryly, a statement framed as a question.

She glances at him, sees him observing her with the same fascination as she observes him.

“Yes...” she breathes huskily. “I kind of... Just want to play with your cock for ages.”

Talking so frankly isn't something she is accustomed to, and this newfound boldness, this uncharacteristic ease around forbidden words and intimate parts of the male body, continues to surprise even herself. The balance between Madonna and whore suddenly tips towards her old, familiar coyness, appalled at such debauchery coming from her own mouth, and causing her to look away for a moment. If the girls back at the plantation could see her now, they would be flabbergasted, Rebecca in particular. Demure, pious little Thomasin, handling and loving an older man's meat like a filthy slut.

She remembers the times even prior to Samuel's disappearance when she would kneel by the verge of the wood, trailing her fingers through the turf. The border was as far as she would go alone, even if, bizarrely, she felt compelled to venture further, so instead she would bide her time with the grass. Even _that_ seemed curiously different there, not merely another variety of shrub but as if constructed from unreal fibers, a glamor that only resembled grass. It was as if its blades were coated in some invisible potion that rubbed off onto her skin every time she touched it, a feeling that both intrigued and disturbed her. She didn't like the concept of something alien adhering itself to her, especially since she couldn't see what it was or what it could do; it was too much like a magic spell being cast. So she would stop, wipe her hands on her skirt, and just kneel there, a vague sense she was waiting for something, or that something was approaching her.

But she would always go back and do it again.

She does not want to sit by the verge now, wondering if the facsimile grass could bewitch her. There is a voice in the depths of the wood, and it is calling to her. It is behind her as well as in front of her, out in the open as well as concealed. It is everywhere, and it is the only thing that matters.

“Then play, my dear,” the wicked man replies, his voice enticing her gaze back to his. “This is about your pleasure as much as mine. It's the journey more than the destination, and I like long journeys.”

“Papa...” she whispers.

There is nothing else, nothing but him. And she wants to devour him, make him a part of her, as integral as blood and bone. She will be a whore, yes, she will, but only for him.

She runs her fingers over the tip of his cock, then trails them down the shaft to his crotch, and back up again. There, she wraps her hand daintily around the top of him, feeling the muffled throbbing against her palm. She remembers that pulsing so vividly within her walls, so insistently carnal. She sweeps slowly downwards, savoring the feeling of his sex held captive in her hand. It's a novel but very pleasant sensation—everything looks so tight and smooth, and she would have imagined it felt like a penile version of a sausage, but it doesn't. Even at full mast, there's still a little give to the flesh, the skin of the column moving and sliding slightly over the muscle. 

“Is that OK, Papa?” she murmurs reverentially.

“Yes, child,” he says, his right hand roaming to toy with her hair again. “But we need lubrication. Spit on your hand, get it nice and slick all over for me.” As she does so, holding steady eye contact with him, he continues: “As slick as your pussy is right now.”

Heat flutters across her cheeks and clavicles, and in that moment it takes all the power she possesses not to jump on him. Her body should not be so damn ready so damn soon after such a magnificent first time fuck, but it is. She is. This newly liberated libido of hers must be an utter maniac. Only the driving need to experience him manually and orally stops her. It's as if her hands, mouth and sex are separate entities, the latter impatient and greedy. She is not impatient and greedy, despite Papa's jests to the contrary. Her mouth and hands deserve their turn now. Even if she is his own personal whore, she will show him what a good, well-mannered one she is.

She grips the tip of his cock—it feels so good just to hold him, just to fully acknowledge him in her hand—then rubs her moistened thumb back and forth across the head, smearing her saliva all over him as his thumb had done on her cheek. A small giggle escapes her, to which Papa laughs, too, clearly endeared.

“Fun, hmm?” he says.

“Yes...” she breathes, unable to hold back the nod and smile. The rush she is getting from simply touching this man is as high and heady as when she had risen into the sky earlier. Despite the confined space, she feels more free, more limitless, than ever. This is blessed new land, abundance ready to be sown and grow. She gently molds her spit-glazed palm around the top of his erection, then lightly and slowly slides down to the base and then back up to the tip. As she slicks him up, she gleefully notices how the heat and the pulsing sensation seem to have increased.

“See?” he points out, either reading her mind or her probably all too transparent reactions. “Moisture makes all the difference.”

This she duly notes, replying with an impish little grin. What a wonderful thing to be naughty, to be impure, she thinks, because she cannot imagine her parents or any of their zealous brethren doing what she is doing. Well, except for the odd few, such as Rebecca. It probably wouldn't even cross most of their minds.

She re-lubricates her right hand and continues polishing him, her gaze meeting his again as his left hand strokes her hair. Those hellish eyes are warm, utterly captivating, and she knows she'll never forget how it felt to see them for the first time, a mystery finally revealed after two long years... and then to have them focused on her as he penetrated her, claimed her. At her most naked and vulnerable, he had been there, the only one who truly knew her. She wonders how many other women he has deflowered, whose soul he has seen into, and if any of them have fellated him in this very kocs.

 _OK,_ she thinks, relinquishing her hold, _so that felt good. Let's see what else does._ Although she's pleased he likes what she was doing, her curiosity remains restless. Besides, she's afraid of boring him with one technique—he has presented her with a universe of opportunity which she would be a fool to waste. Some people looked at a musical instrument and saw one note or chord; others envisioned a tune, an entire song. Finding her feet though she is, innocent little Thomasin is going to be a goddamn cock maestro, and the God now lost to her will not have mercy on her soul for it, if he ever would have to begin with.

Drawing on memories of his foreplay, and flicking her gaze back to his as much as possible—that, she is certain arouses him, because it arouses her no end, although she is unaccustomed to the intensity—she licks a slow path with the very point of her tongue, a teasing journey from root to tip. There, she explores the apex with tentative laps, reveling in his soft-focus fascination, and the heat that this hitherto virgin part of her body is experiencing. Seeking stimulation, her now empty right hand seems to move of its own volition, wrapping around the lower part of his shaft with blissful relief. If a palm could sigh then she's sure hers would. It would also thank him for this blessed sanctuary.

“Do you like this?” she interrupts her licks to ask him, a timid but hopeful child anxious for a parent's approval.

“I do,” he confirms, to her joy. “No complaints so far. And remember, you're learning—about me, but also about yourself. Indulge your curiosity. Find out what _you_ enjoy doing to my cock.”

“Unless it's biting?” she recalls aloud. “Or rushing things?”

“Precisely,” he says with an approving nod, a glint of pride in his eyes, like a parent who has successfully taught their child a much needed skill.

She is positively beaming; he is pleased with her. She is making progress, and her Papa is proud of her.

“Try to avoid teeth in general. Sometimes that might not be possible; in which case, gently does it.”

“OK.”

She descends and then ascends, testing and probing with those little kitten laps, while her right hand rhythmically but very gently squeezes his glorious girth, and her left begins to kneed the toned flesh of his right thigh. Her laps become pointed licks, which become longer licks with the flat of her tongue, which give way to full on kisses, wet and sumptuous, as she immerses herself in him. The reverie takes her, her eyes fluttering closed of their own accord, and there is a soft, moaning sound, which she suddenly realizes she is the one making. She doesn't care, because the sheer eroticism of the whole experience is just too damn good. His eyes. His inked face, with its soft, generous lips. His garments, hewn of blackest incense. His strong legs, like a protective barrier on either side of her. His delectable manhood. _Him_.

“Mmmm, that's right,” he drawls, caressing the top of her head, massaging her scalp. “Lose yourself.”

“Papa...” she moans into his saliva-glazed skin, eyelids still closed. “Papa... I...” Spellbound, she can't find the rest of the words. She doesn't even know what she intended to say.

The ruinous man chuckles, fingers weaving themselves into her hair. “You love it?”

She presses his cock against her face with the flat of her palm, brushing her cheek against the underside like an eager cat, while stroking her palm up and down the top side. “I love it. I love it. Oh fff- I...” At his prompt, the words spill out of her so readily and naturally it's as if the two of them have been bedfellows for years. In a sense, she guesses, they have.

“This,” he intones silkily, “is what I enjoy most—seeing _you_ have the time of your life.”

Nuzzling, brushing, stroking, licking and kissing and moaning, slicking her face with her own copious saliva, she is a thorough mess, and she never wants to be tidy again, or clean.

“The Bible says “you shall not suffer a witch to live”.”

Exodus 22:18, she remembers.

“Because Jehovah-”

Although her lids are heavy with weighty lust, she manages to open them to regard her master. She wants to see him while he feeds her with despicable ideology.

“-does not believe in freedom or happiness. Only dogma, blind obedience. He wants only to control you, to oppress you, and give little or nothing in return. Where is the beauty in that? Where is the light? How is that in any way magnanimous?”

 _Oh, keep talking, Papa,_ she wordlessly begs him, the sheer blasphemy almost as arousing as his erection. How must it be to witness a sermon from this man? A transcendental experience, for sure, and not a dry vagina in the church. Even women past their fertility would be moved.

“What is a witch, to Jehovah? A witch is any woman who questions, any woman who does not believe that “love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things”. A love that is based upon suffering is not love; it is slavery. You are not a slave, Thoma _sin_.”

 _Oh, oh, ohhh..._ she cannot get over the way he deliberately mispronounces her name. It must have been fate that her parents chose it.

“Not to Jehovah, not to Satan, not to me.”

“But I-” she thinks aloud, her speech muffled through her lewd ministrations. His cock is so thoroughly coated with her saliva now it gleams in the lamplight, radiant.

“You want to be?” he correctly guesses, as if he's inside her head. “To me?”

“Y- yes.”

That delicious, cruel little smirk, verging on mocking. She should abhor it, and abhor herself for not doing so. The thought kept returning, the notion that her mother died hating her because she really _had_ known what her errant daughter was capable of.

“Yes, _Papa,_ ” he corrects her, the look in his eyes turning as dark as the terrifying drop between shallow water and deep.

“Yes, Papa,” she obeys, eyeing him adoringly.

“Mmm hmm. My good little girl.”


	6. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2020/7/26 UPDATE:  
> ~ Regarding the first chapter, I've changed the official novitiate period from 1 year to 2, and Thomasin's fast tracking of it from 6 months to 18 months. In retrospect, I feel a year was far too short an estimation, and having Thomasin complete her training doubly fast was just a tad too Mary-Sue-ish, irrespective of how much effort she put in. It was never my intention to make her a perfect character--more a workaholic with an ambitious streak and a driving desire to impress her Papa. As per 'Blue Skyed Eternity', I had to grant her *some* natural magical abilities, *some* raw talent, to fit in with the idea that Papa, and Satan, chose her for a reason (beyond the fact that she's attractive and youthful). They immediately recognized her potential, but that is not to say she's a genius whose accomplishments come easily. 
> 
> ~ 2020/8/1 EDIT:  
> I've changed the part of 'Blue Skyed Eternity' where Thomasin has a "vision" to something that's no longer a "vision". To be honest, I never liked that part to begin with--"vision" is way too cliche, Magical Girl MarySue-ish--but I called it that because for the life of me I couldn't recall the term I actually intended. I've since remembered that term, and altered the section in question. 
> 
> \- - - - 
> 
> ~ Although this is fiction, thereby permitting the taking of creative liberties, I aim for things to be as accurate as possible within the parameters of whatever world my stories inhabit. Sex, however, is one of the aspects fanfic writers can get away with exaggerating, because let's face it, the desire to get characters boning is what created fanfic sites in the first place, and no-one wants to read about mediocre sex. Fantastical, mind-blowing jiggy antics are crucial to smutfic. So, no, this isn't the most realistic depiction of a first time blow job, but in the context of fantasy world where Satan and magic are real, I hope it checks out. 
> 
> ~ Hungarian translations by CodeX57, and Lakatos Andrea Csenge, over on reddit.

**Chapter 5**

The world outside is speeding past them as the coach cuts through the night. It occurs to Thomasin that she has never traveled this fast in her life.

 _So many firsts in only a few hours_ , she thinks, curling her slicked-up palm around the root of Papa's luscious cock, immediately beginning to pump up to where her lips kiss and slurp out obscene noises. She hopes he isn't nearing his summit, because her cheeks and chest are hot and her sex is sodden and her nipples are pebble-hard and she is just enjoying this all too much.

“That kind of slavery,” Papa drawls seductively, “is freedom. _Kis Thoma_ sin.”

 _Kiish Toe-mah-siiiin_ , it sounds like. She's unsure what it means, or where the stress in his native language's pronunciation of her name should fall; she surmises the “ _kis_ ” probably has something to do with “ _kicsim_ ”, and that, whatever the correct rendering of her name, he's probably exaggerating the last syllable, regardless. He will seize every opportunity to remind her that she is his little sinner, entice and tease her with it, berate and praise, her name as his weapon.

That authoritarian, gloved hand enmeshing itself in her hair, and those hellish eyes beholding her with a cool intensity, he regales her in that caress of a voice: “Nem érti, mit mondok, de mindegy is. Majd megérti. Gyorsan tanul, és jók a megérzései. Úgyhogy hallgasson ide. Figyeljen jól.”

He talks slowly enough for her to register and savor each word as she fellates him, experiencing his language like the first sip of some new, intoxicating drink. Although she understands none of it, its peculiar melody intrigues her, alien and unlike any of the other languages she has received rudimentary teaching in. There is also something so indescribably arousing about watching him speak it through their mutual erotic haze, lording above her as she reveres him, a dark preacher schooling his student in the ways of deviance. It doesn't matter what he is saying—it could be the life cycle of a chicken and sound no less sexy.

“Úgy két évvel ezelőtt, nem túl messze innen, volt egy piac, a piac tömegében pedig egy hattagú család. Meg egy konflis.”

It still surprises her how he manages to remain so calm, so measured, while her mouth and hands are on him, and his pleasure is building.

“A konflisnak sötétített ablakai voltak, úgyhogy nem lehetett belátni rajtuk. Bent egyetlen utas ült. Ahogy a kocsi tovagurul, az utas észreveszi a családot, észreveszi a szép lányt.”

Lust-addled and rapt, she regards him, breathing small, foggy moans onto his dick.

“A szép lány pedig hátrafordul, és meglátja a konflist. Az utast nem látja, de érzi, hogy ott van. Maga hallotta már ezt a történetet.” He pauses for a moment, the hint of a smile creeping across his lips. “Ismeri, nem igaz?”

“ _Ish-mary- mmmm... nem- mmmff... iigaz?”_ she repeats, between romances.

The sinful man's smile broadens in pleased surprise. “Do you know what you just said?” he asks.

“Nnnm- no,” she moan-mumbles, before taking an extra forceful slurp on his cock head.

“Such filthy noises!” he remarks, feigning shock, his fingers tightening their grip on her hair. “My my.”

 _Another one that works_ , she notes, committing the slurp-and-pump technique to memory.

“Anyway, “isn't that true?” is what you just said.”

Her blush deepens at his praise. “Isn't...” slurp, slurp, “what... true?”

“You'll find out, soon enough.”

“Teach me?” she beseeches him, changing tack to hold his cock to her glazed lips, rubbing the spit-shiny glans against them, and then between them, in and out in a teasing little dance. Whether it's physically pleasurable for him, she isn't sure, but she's certain he enjoys the visual, and she stimulates him and herself with this appetizer. He watches her, calmly curious. Is he considering what she'll do next, she wonders? Is he as enthralled experiencing her as she is experiencing him?

“Hungarian?”

She nods.

A look of mild astonishment crosses his face, followed by something bordering on admiration. “That's brave. If I didn't know you better, I'd say foolhardy.”

“Why?”

Willpower quickly loses out to hunger and curiosity; she can't resist wrapping her lips around his blunt tip, taking the entirety of his cock head into her mouth this time, before beginning to properly suck. Her right hand is already sheathing him again, hot palm and fingers against hot, hard meat, and working him up and down. The feeling of him in her mouth is wonderful, strangely similar to the pleasant, comforting sensation of sucking her thumb as a young child, except much thicker, warmer, and hardly as innocent.

“There's a reason Hungarians have to learn other people's languages.” He gives a little snort. “But, I'm content to honor your wish.”

There is virtually no scent or flavor to him besides that of unscrupulously clean skin, plus a trace of something primal which she can only describe as 'masculine'. He smells and tastes male, something so vital in its masculinity that it's like a direct command to her pussy and mouth to get even wetter, and her naked skin to tingle.

The only specific details she recalls Rebecca sharing were that you were supposed to suck, and pump your hand, and that the only blowing you were allowed to do was on the tip when it was outside your mouth. Some men really enjoyed that little technique, she had said, but sucking and pumping were the backbone of any blowjob. Well, she'll get to trying the actual blowing part later, she decides, because right now he is too irresistible to not have in her mouth. He is so firm and full and hot against her lips, tongue and cheeks, and she venerates him with her moans, the sounds of her voice and ministrations filling the carriage.

“Mmm hmm, my good girl,” he murmurs, leather-bound fingers massaging the top of her head.

 _My good girl._ His good girl. His.

Realizing she needs to top up on hand lubrication, she stops to moisten her palm again, slowly and teasingly, several licks up and down, whilst attempting a coquettish smile. The skull-inked man holds her captive in his sights, his smoldering gaze studying her every action. A facet of approval flickers in those nightmarish eyes as she dives back in, sweeping her hand up and down the length of his girthy shaft, sucking on his cock head. The sheer eroticism of having his engorged, delectable dick is in her mouth and hand is like the crescendo to a mental orgasm. She fellates him almost feverishly, unable to suppress her vocal responses, and her flushed cheeks hollowing with the effort. It's so unfathomably good that her eyelids flutter closed once more, only opening when he next speaks.

“You're doing a fine job, child,” he applauds her. “Now try this.”

He covers her hand with his, her grip slackening and yielding to him, then deftly maneuvers her fingers and palm into a twisting, gently wringing motion as she glides up and down.

She goes with it, loving the instruction, the sensation of his strong hand playing hers, and the interesting additional motif of his foreskin bunching up around the rim of his glans.

“That's good,” he confirms, looking pleased with her, and draws his hand away.

Whilst it's an empowering feeling to know that she is the source of his pleasure, she's under no illusion who is really in control. The last time she had traveled in a vehicle it had been a rickety, cramped old wagon, and away from the plantation, leaving civilization, safety and hope behind. Her mother had sung a hymn, which all but William had soon joined in on:

“ _Beautiful and glorious His work is, and His righteousness endureth forever...”_

This time, it's a creation of opulence and spaciousness, and the song she is singing is one of hums and lust-filled moans, in praise not of Jehovah but of the man opposite her and his very Earthly delights. A hymn of his concoction, that he is leading.

Working a homestead has accustomed her to using her hands at length, so manual manipulation is no trouble, but the constant sucking is proving far harder than she had imagined. Fatigue already setting in, she withdraws, disappointed at her lack of oral stamina, but keeps her hand moving with ease.

“I'm sorry,” she utters, a little downcast.

“What for?” he replies, looking baffled.

“My cheeks are tired.” The sentence sounds oddly comical out loud, provoking a nervous giggle.

“No bother,” he reassures her. “Sucking a cock may be enjoyable, but it's hard work, especially if you're a novice. Over time, your endurance will increase; right now, banish all concerns from your mind. There are plenty of substitutes.”

“Like this?” she asks enthusiastically, remembering Rebecca's advice. She leans back in, emitting a little rush of breath over that glistening, blunted pyramid—that pyramid, she thinks, that has worked its own wizardry on her gush-inducing spot and her cervix. A hiss of approval from him answers her question, so she does it again, and his grip on her hair tightens.

“Or this?” she ventures, an idea springing to mind. Necessity is the mother of invention, so she has been told. She closes her lips around the rim of his cock head, moving no oral part except her tongue, which gives a volley of little vertical and then horizontal flicks at his frenulum.

This earns her a short, sharp intake of breath, and she notes a quick tense of his right thigh against her left hand. She stops, an irrepressible grin forming at the knowledge that she has surprised the both of them, and that it's paid off.

“Very good, child. _Very_ good.”

As always—or at least, as long as she's known him—he keeps a tight reign on his cadence, letting nothing ruffle that stoic demeanor. Save for the actual words he chooses, and the almost imperceptibly heavier breathing, he permits himself only the subtlest of tells—the very opposite of her. It's almost absurd how she's the one making all the noise, probably making enough for the two of them. Those scant tells are nevertheless enough to get the message across, though. What is more, there's something eerily sexy about how controlled he is, an air of masterful discipline, enhanced all the more for her own unraveling. Encouraged, she re-lubricates her palm, getting right back to polishing, while her mouth sets about alternating the two surprise techniques. Blow; cover and flick; blow; cover and flick; moaning as she does so, and making intermittent eye contact.

He is the one to stop her, saying, “Rest your mouth a while. Use those pretty hands—both of them. Like this:”

The puppet master takes her hands, wrapping the right one around the tip of him, and stroking downwards. The instant that hand nears the base, he repeats the gesture with her left, and then again with her right.

“That's right,” he coos, releasing his hold. “Nice and slow. Just wet your left a little more.”

She obeys, then immediately resumes the delicious task, cooing right back at him through tremulous breaths, “Papa... Mmm... Papa...”

“Mmm hmm,” he says with a smile, the knuckle of his left index finger gently kneading her right cheekbone. “I'm not close yet, but when I do come, have you considered where you want it?”

“Not really. I mean, no.”

“Think on it.”

She shakes her head. “I- I can't.” The act of loving him, combined with the thought of him at the point of ultimate ecstasy, have her lightheaded, stupid drunk to the point where she can't even contemplate her options, let alone articulate herself adequately.

“It's okay, don't worry,” he soothes, evidently picking up on her frustration. “Let your Papa advise you.”

 _Your Papa_. Her Papa. She still can't get over that. He rests one leather-encased palm against her right cheek, and she wastes no time nuzzling into it, kissing and mashing her lips against the heel.

_My Papa._

“If you want to _see_ me climax, it's best on your body. If you want it all over your pretty face, and in that lovely hair, you'll have to close your eyes, because if it gets into them it'll sting for quite a while. If you want it in your mouth, keep in mind it'll taste and feel strange. Not necessarily bad, but still, if you would rather not taste it, you can either spit it out, or you can try a little technique—it's not easy for first timers, but I'm happy to instruct you.”

“What do you... want?”

“I have no preference. This is about you.”

“I... I want to- oh-” His manhood feels so sublime in her hands, and his gloved hand against her face so thrillingly dominant yet supportive, both a jailer and a protector.

“Don't answer now. It can wa-”

“Mouth,” her mannerless desire interjects. “My mouth. Want to... feel... taste...”

And it's true. She wants to feel everything, learn everything, overload herself with new experiences, immerse herself entirely in this sea of iniquity and have it stain every part of her. She wants it to infiltrate every fiber of her being, every pore, everything that she was and is and will be, leaving her forever sullied. Even if the taste and texture of his seed turns out to be abhorrent, it will be worth it just to know that he has claimed her there.

“Are you sure?”

“Mmm... I- Yes.”

“Then you will, my little sinner. You'll get all of it, every single drop in your sweet little mouth. How good does that sound?”

“Yes... yes...”

So large and stiff, so warm and pulsing, and so glossy with her saliva, she is sure his sex has been crafted from, and for, sin itself.

“But if you change your mind, tell me. No offense will be taken. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good. And are you still comfortable on your knees?”

“Yes.”

In fact, her legs seem to have forgotten the concepts of comfort versus discomfort, so intent is she on maintaining that position, that gesture of sacrilegious supplication.

“If and when you're not, let me know. Okay?”

She replies with a nod, which he acknowledges with a slow and deliberate tip of his head.

And so she continues, stimulating him manually, making a spit-coated masterpiece of his glove and her own cheeks, whilst murmuring his name over and over. By the time “Papa” has become meaningless babble, her oral energy is restored, and her mouth is craving his fullness again. Without warning, she plunges back in, stroking and twisting her right hand up and down the length of him as her lips teasingly work his cock head, and her tongue massages the underside. Oh, it's so good, so damn good.

“Lovely,” he breathes, pursing his lips and inhaling slowly.

“Mmm... yes...” she hums through a full mouth, observing the distinct clench and relax of his thighs.

“Do you like the way you sound with my cock in your mouth?”

She nods eagerly, eyes imploring.

“I do, too. It's a whole language in itself, you know. The most romantic one known to mankind.”

He closes his eyes, taking another slow drag of the sex-heavy air, his left hand thoroughly entangling itself in her hair again. The pleasure on his face, fleeting though it may be, makes him look almost beatific.

“Are you-” she breaks stride momentarily to ask, “close?”

A string of saliva dangles between her lips and his peak, the impurest of umbilical cords. He gathers it on his thumb, then smudges it against her glossy lips, and over her cheek. Such a wonderful mess.

Selfishly, she hopes he's nowhere near finished, because this—the very fact that she is fellating a cleric of Satan, worshipping his cock as if its owner were her only true idol—is a high she isn't ready to descend from just yet. It's a never-ending rush, a perfection she never could have imagined, and it doesn't matter if her legs cramp up or deaden, or her hands and wrists grow sore, or her mouth and jaw end up completely spent, as long as it doesn't end soon.

That subtle, but no less wicked smile again, with its knowing gleam in those eyes. “Oh, I can hold on for a good while. Don't you worry about that.” His tone drops to a whisper: “I see you, my little sinner. And I _like_ what I see.”

There is something at once menacing and beautiful in his gaze that makes her feel even more impossibly naked, stripped down to her bare bones, to her very essence. Every time he plies her with that look—that _look_ , dear, sweet, forsaken God—a little thrill of fear tickles her spine, creeps up her arms and over her shoulders and into her neck, to the super sensitive region behind her ears. It kisses her there, a wispy gracing of phantom lips setting off a shower of heavenly tingles, every one of them telling her who she belongs to. She can't escape someone who knows her truth so entirely.

“How... do you-" she asks somewhat breathlessly, switching hand and mouth positions to give his hot shaft some lingering licks with the flat of her tongue, whilst slowly tugging on his cock head with her moistened hand, "-hold on.... for so long?”

“Mind over matter,” he replies slyly, “willpower, and a _lot_ of training. Mundane things, nothing magical.”

She plays surprised: “So... your... your cock... isn't a wand?”

After his save-the-day humor that had helped push away unpleasant memories, it's his turn to laugh aloud.

And so it goes, time dissolving as they bewitch each other in the speeding vehicle, racing towards the dawn.

* * *

“Look,” he drawls lowly, gesturing that she pull away from him. “That's pre-cum. That's your doing.”

She gasps, fascinated, watching the clear, sticky-looking fluid ooze irrepressibly from his urethra, and trickle temptingly down his shaft. Rebecca had never mentioned _that_. The sight alone makes her quiver. She scoops it onto her fingers, rubs it between her thumb and forefinger, before bringing them to her lips. It's mildly viscous, almost devoid of taste except for the blandest of salty undertones; she recognizes it, realizing it's what she must have tasted several times earlier, just before he would have her slow and soften her actions, but she hadn't paid attention to it then.

“Means I'm close.”

She couldn't have wiped away the smile if he had just thwacked her in the face. As promised, he's held on to ensure mutual satisfaction, guiding her on how to pace herself and vary her intensity so that he remains a step or two from the edge, but never surrendering to it. But she's ready now, her own body and mind bristling with hunger, yearning for his release as much as he is. If how she feels is anything to go by, he must be aching near to death by now, she reckons.

“Still your mouth?” he asks.

“Yes. Please, yes.”

“So sweet,” he coos.

The rapture strikes like unholy lightning, a hell beast sinking its teeth into her, bloodthirsty and determined to glut itself until there is no more need to slake. She needs to take this man to a place of ultimate euphoria and feel him succumb to it. Inspired by an interesting detail he had told her earlier, she decides to take another chance, cocooning his sensually darkened cock head in her mouth, then wrapping both hands tightly around his shaft to envelope him entirely. She does nothing except hold him there and moan around him, rhythmically tensing and relaxing her grasp in a fluttering motion, little contractions mimicking the way he said her orgasms felt when he had fucked her. If she can't physically crest with him, she can at least make it feel that way for him.

“That's it, my sweet child,” he purrs. “Oh, that's _good_. Fucking _beautiful_.”

His breath hitches, his thighs and calves clenching.

“Jehovah wants you to suffer,” he intones, his voice velvet-rich. “Satan wants you to enjoy.”

His cock is pulsing with a rapid urgency, the crescendo climbing, climbing, towards the clouds. The storm is going to break any moment now.

“Jehovah wants you to starve; Satan wants you to feast.”

 _For what I am about to receive_ , she recites internally. May her Papa make her truly grateful.

He closes his eyes, and his right hand doesn't so much caress her hair as weave into it and tug, entangling his long fingers right to her roots, tethering her to him. It's a little painful, but that doesn't bother her, because she can feel- she can feel-

A violent throb, a sharp drawing of breath, and for the second time that night, there it is—that telltale twitch of his cock. Orgasm consumes him. His member jerks within its confines, and he is climaxing, eyes closed, lips slightly parted, chest visibly rising and falling, as hot reams of his seed shoot into her welcoming mouth. Her eyes close, too, overwhelmed by the same almighty rhapsody, rejoicing in every throb and spasm and glorious ejaculation. The man is drenching her in his pleasure—or so it feels—but she fights the urge to swallow, determined to receive all he has to give. She keeps working, feasting, needing to wring out every last scintilla of his climax, prolong his ecstasy to its absolute limit.

Then the spurts cease, the throbbing beginning to calm, and the pull on her hair relaxing. He has come. His apogee is fading. But she won't swallow just yet—receiving his seed is a reward for a job well done, and she is reluctant to let all that wonderful cum go. He's right, it does feel and taste strange—warm, with a consistency like egg white, and a curiously salty, sweet flavor, with a subtle metallic edge. The odor, too, is a singular one, reminiscent somewhat of soapy water, plus the hartshorn salt her mother used for baking bread. Although unlike anything she's ingested before, it's not entirely unpleasant, and is completely worth holding onto if only for the sheer erotic factor of having her master's orgasm, his life-giving seed, in one of her most intimate areas.

Removing his barely deflated cock from her mouth, but still holding it at the base, she opens her eyes to find him gazing down upon her.

“ _Kis Thoma_ sin,” he breathes, pinning her with that look, before letting his vision rake over her again in that thrilling, predatory manner.

Blushed cheeks, hair completely mussed up, saliva smeared chin, and a mouth full of cum, she is _his_. His prey, his well-earned kill, his utter mess. She considers herself thoroughly claimed, and she couldn't be more happy about it.

She presents her open mouth, showing him her cum-doused tongue in its welling pool of saliva.

“Such a good little girl.” He fixes her with a soft-focus smile, cozy and satisfied, brushing his knuckles over her clammy cheek. “I'm very proud of you.”

She could have danced for joy right then, had space and an empty mouth permitted it, and had her legs not gone almost entirely to sleep.

Gazes locked, she finally does swallow, and it feels like an act of utmost veneration. The residue coats her tongue and throat, leaving a definite aftertaste, but it's bearable, and damn if it isn't spectacular to see the admiration written on his face as he witnesses it. He really is proud of her, and suddenly it no longer seems so wrong to feel proud of herself, either.

“Nagyon köszönöm, kedves gyerek.”

 _Naa-gyon ker-ser-nerm, ked-vesh gyair-ek_ , she repeats in her head.

“In other words: thank you very much, dear child. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ As always, the offer for any constructive criticism on this bubbling cauldron of filth remains open. Errors, typos, suggestions on how to improve—all is welcome here.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cold Sun: Redacted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25649623) by [leaveyoursensibilitiesatthedoor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaveyoursensibilitiesatthedoor/pseuds/leaveyoursensibilitiesatthedoor)




End file.
